The sorrow in his face was clear.
His angst, his visceral pain, obvious.
He asked Where are you going?
She replied I said I am leaving.
He asked But to where?
She replied I didn't say.
He asked Why not?
She said If I had wanted to tell you, I would have.
And then she turned and left to go.
Took the children with her.
And quickly passed out the door.
He said You are killing me.
She replied Sorry, I know how that feels.
He stared at her back and his children's backs.
He thought of saying I want nothing more than you to be happy.
But he chose to say nothing. He didn't want her to be happy without him. He wanted her to be happy next to him being happy. And the children among them, actively. But that is not the story that happened, only the one that he wanted. And now he'd be haunted, for he did love her. And he loved his children. Then there were no more tears. He was now hating her. His visage thereafter never changed. His hurt never left him. But now his hatred would be the fire inside, instead of the love. He was never good at personal relationships. That doesn't mean he didn't feel, and didn't know what that felt like to lose.
