Chapter 5 - The Empty Room
The cool Sacramento night air hit my face like a splash of cold water as I stepped out of the apartment building and into the parking lot. My chest heaved as I fought back hot, angry tears of frustration and betrayal.
I didn't care where I was driving. I just needed to put distance between myself and the suffocating atmosphere of my own home.
I climbed into my sedan, started the engine, and drove aimlessly through the quiet residential streets, watching the streetlights blur past through a sheen of moisture I refused to let fall. How had it come to this? Just a month ago, Justin and I had been a normal, happy couple. Now, a two-week medical visit had laid bare the rot at the foundation of our marriage—a husband who prioritized his mother's comfort over his wife's dignity.
After forty minutes of driving, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I couldn't just run away every time things got difficult. It was my name on the lease. It was my home.
I turned the car around and headed back toward the apartment complex, my jaw set, ready to finish what I had started.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed our apartment windows were dark. No harsh glare from the living room lights. No silhouette of Brenda or Virginia pacing behind the blinds.
A faint spark of hope flickered in my chest. Did they actually leave? Did Justin finally grow a spine and tell them to go?
I parked the car, walked up the concrete steps to the second floor, and pushed open the front door with my key.
The apartment was dead silent.
"Justin?" I called out, stepping into the foyer.
No answer.
I walked down the hallway toward the guest room. The door was wide open. I stepped inside, expecting to see suitcases zipped shut and empty hangers in the closet.
Instead, the room was empty—not because they had packed and left, but because every single thing belonging to Virginia and Walter was completely gone. The pillows, the sheets, the toiletries, even the small framed photo of Justin they had placed on the nightstand.
They hadn't just packed their bags.
They had stripped the room down to the bare mattress.
My heart skipped a beat. I turned around and hurried toward our master bedroom. The door was closed. I pushed it open.
Justin was sitting on the edge of our bed in the dim light, staring at the floor with his head in his hands. His duffel bag—the one we used for weekend trips—was zipped shut on the floor beside him, resting next to his suit carrier.
He looked up when the door creaked, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
May you like
Justin stood up slowly, avoiding my gaze, and reached for the handle of his duffel bag.
"They went to a hotel downtown," Justin said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "And I'm going with them."
