The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I lie still beside Noah, staring at the ceiling as his heavy breathing grows deeper, steadier — almost rhythmic. The ceiling fan spins above us, a slow hypnotic circle that creaks at every turn. I can feel the sweat pooling beneath my back, cold against the cotton of my nightgown.
I don't move. Not yet. I'm waiting.
He just spoke a few minutes ago. Said something about how excited he was. About how, right after I "pop the girl out," we'll try again for a son.
Try again. Like I'm some kind of machine.
I remember saying "okay." Just that one word. Nothing else. It rolled off my tongue like poison I swallowed before it could burn. I always say "okay" now. It's easier that way.
Noah turns onto his side with a sigh, then stills. My stomach clenches.
I stay still for another ten minutes, maybe longer, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest. When I'm sure — absolutely sure — that he's asleep, I slowly slide my legs over the edge of the bed.
The clock says 3:12 a.m.
I rise, holding my breath. The mattress creaks under my weight, and I pause, heart pounding in my ears. But Noah doesn't move. A soft snore slips from his nose. I exhale.
I creep across the room. Step by step.
At the closet, I grab the small gym bag I'd tucked behind my pile of folded scarves. I'd been slowly stashing things in there for weeks now — tiny baby clothes I found at a thrift store, an old hoodie, a pack of crackers, a half-empty water bottle, a toothbrush.
Now, I shove in more — underwear, socks, a few shirts, a pair of jeans. Anything I can grab quickly and quietly.
At the bedside table, I crouch down, fingers trembling as I slide open the drawer. His wallet is there — thick with cash. He's one of those people who doesn't trust banks. I flip it open. Bills. I don't count. I just take.
Next is my phone, hidden under a tissue box. Then the wedding ring. I don't even hesitate. I yank it off my finger and stuff it deep into the bag. It's the only thing he gave me that might actually be worth something.
I zip up the bag slowly, the teeth of the zipper sounding like thunder in the quiet room. My fingers sweat. My legs feel numb.
I reach for the doorknob. Turn it inch by inch. It clicks softly. I wince.
Still nothing from the bed.
I crack the door open and slip into the hallway.
The house smells like mint tea and leftover stew. It always does at night. It's familiar and suffocating.
I pad across the hall on bare feet. The living room light is still on, and my heart stutters.
He should be asleep.
But when I peek around the corner — I freeze.
Noah's father is still awake.
He's sunk deep into the couch, shirt pulled up to his chest, belly rising and falling. The TV glows blue in front of him, casting his lined face in soft, flickering light. His mouth hangs open.
I crouch low. I don't breathe.
He's watching something loud — a late-night talk show maybe. But his eyes are shut.
As quietly as I can, I drop to my hands and knees. My bag scrapes softly along the tiled floor behind me as I crawl across the living room — past his slippers, past the coffee table covered in old newspapers and a glass of orange soda, past the chair where his wife knits scarves for church fundraisers.
I keep crawling.
When I finally reach the garage door, I slowly turn the handle and ease it open. It groans just enough to make me freeze — but the TV drowns it out.
I slide out.
The air hits my face like a slap — crisp, cool, sharp with spring night wind. I suck in a breath like it's the first one I've ever taken.
And then I run.
I don't look back. I don't dare. I run past the mailbox, past the old oak tree that Noah's mom decorates for every holiday, past the cracked sidewalk and the rusted gate.
My legs ache, but I don't stop. Not even when my lungs burn. Not even when my belly feels too heavy to carry.
I run like my soul depends on it.
Because it does.
Because I can't be here anymore. I won't be here anymore.
I don't know where I'm going. I don't have a plan. But I have cash, a few clothes, and the one thing I haven't had in years.
Hope.
Even if it's fragile. Even if it's terrifying.
Tonight, I chose freedom.
No matter what comes next.