In the morning, her first instinct will be to call him and she won't do it, waiting instead for him to call, since she's left at least a dozen messages for him in the past three days alone and she'd rabidly
called his number every ten minutes for the better part of an hour when he'd disappeared the night before and never called her back.

Her hand will drift to her pregnant belly, she'll whisper sweet nothings to the child she carries and promise it that she'll never leave, she'll always be here, she'll pick up where Daddy is leaving off.

Another woman, maybe. His work, definitely. Their marriage was young and promising, and the shine hadn’t even worn off their rings. He was slipping away; was it the baby?

She’ll call him today, later, a desperate whining note in her voice, and he’ll return disheveled in a few days.

The beginning of the end.