Chapter Fifty Three
Camille
Life didn’t slow down to give me room to feel Hunter’s absence.
Mornings were the same whirlwind, packing lunches, chasing Zeke to put his shoes on, juggling twin tantrums while trying to get out the door on time.
At work, I smiled at patients, filed charts, answered phones, all while my mind replayed our fight like a broken record.
I told myself I was angry. If he wanted to pull away, fine, I’d survived people leaving before.
My dad’s absence. The day I realized the kids’ father was lost to drugs.
The heartbreak of realizing the man who came before him wasn’t sticking around either.
I’d survived all of that, raised three kids, and kept going.
But underneath, the anger melted into dread.
Dread that this time I hadn’t just been left behind, but that I’d pushed him there.
I remembered the look in his eyes before he walked out.
Tired. Haunted. Like he was carrying something I couldn’t touch.
I hated that he wouldn’t let me in, but I hated more that maybe he truly believed he wasn’t worth letting in.
I kept moving, kept checking things off the list. Because if I stopped, if I let myself breathe, the silence wrapped tighter around me.
And at night, I’d catch myself remembering.
Hunter leaning over my textbooks, making some dumb joke just to make me laugh.
Him pushing the twins in their swings, Zeke squealing from his shoulders at the park.
His truck pulled into the lot, the way my chest always lifted when I heard it.
But, there’s only so much waiting a person can do.
After another long day of work and class, the kids running circles around me, I sat down at the table, phone in hand.
The last message I’d sent him was two days old, still unanswered.
Just a simple picture of the twins, hair wild, mouths sticky with peanut butter.
Nothing complicated. Nothing demanding. And still, nothing back.
I stared at the blank screen until my chest hurt. Then I did something I hadn’t let myself do in weeks. I put the phone down, flipped it face down on the table, and decided I was done waiting. Done refreshing, done hoping, done holding my breath for a man who clearly wasn’t holding his for me.
It wasn’t anger. It was a kind of exhaustion that settled deep, the kind that made my bones heavy.
I’d begged people to stay before, and I couldn’t do it again.
I needed to choose what was right for the kids and me, to build a life that didn’t hinge on someone else deciding if we were enough.
So I folded laundry, packed lunches, and finished my reading for class.
I tucked the kids in with extra kisses and let myself breathe without reaching for the phone.
I wanted the kids to see it was okay to ask for what we needed, to build resilience, but also to recognize the gentle strength of setting boundaries.