What About Our Children?

What About Our Children?

You said it without shouting.

That almost made it worse.

Like it wasn’t worth the noise.

Like we were just a note you’d written

then folded in half and walked away from.

You didn’t name another woman.

Didn’t bring up years of fights.

You just said you couldn’t do it anymore,

The marriage is over, there is no more us.

I watched your mouth move

and kept mine shut.

Not because I agreed,

because I couldn’t find the words

that would matter to you now.

I still make your tea

the way you like it.

Still fold your washing

out of habit, out of love?

like love lives in my hands

long after it’s left your heart.

The kids are upstairs.

They don’t know yet.

You said you’d tell them next week

when things were “settled.”

As if hearts ever settle clean.

As if pain waits politely

for your calendar to clear.

Do you think they won’t notice?

That they won’t ask why your chair is cold,

why there’s only one toothbrush by the sink,

why their bedtime stories stop halfway through?

They’ll see through your weekend smiles.

They’ll know the difference

between a father

and a visitor with sweets.

And what do I tell them?

When they ask what happened.

Do I say you loved us once

but not enough to stay?

Do I say you tried

but not where it counted?

You walked out with no suitcase?

just your decision.

You took the quiet with you.

Left the noise behind in me.

I still love you.

There.

I Said it again.

Even now, with the bed half-made

and your side stiff with cold.

But love doesn’t keep a house standing

if only one of us is holding up the walls.

And you?

you’ve already stepped outside.