It was a Tuesday afternoon when my phone buzzed. A text from my SIL. “Hey! Quick errand. Just an hour. Can you watch the kids?” Just an hour, she said. My stomach tightened. I had dinner plans – a friend was in town, only for one day. We’d booked this months ago. But family, right? “Sure,” I typed back, forcing a smile I knew she couldn’t see. Just an hour. What could possibly go wrong?
She pulled up thirty minutes later, the back of her SUV practically vibrating. Three kids. Under seven. All at once. A whirlwind of sticky fingers, demands, and inexplicable enthusiasm exploded into my meticulously clean living room. “Thanks! Be back super soon!” she chirped, practically sprinting back to her car before I could even process what was happening. She was gone.
The first hour was… chaos. The two-year-old immediately found the dog’s water bowl. The four-year-old decided he was an aspiring artist and my pristine white wall was his canvas. The six-year-old, bless her heart, mostly just watched, occasionally offering a helpful, “Mommy never lets us do that!” I bet she doesn’t. My friend texted, asking if I was on my way. I shot back an apologetic, “Running late! SIL dropped kids off.”
Two hours passed. My friend called. “Are you coming?” Dinner was starting without me. My carefully planned evening, the only chance I’d get to see her, was slipping through my fingers like sand. I was simmering. This is not just an hour. This is not okay.
I tried my SIL’s phone. Straight to voicemail. Her husband’s phone. Also voicemail. The kids were now ravenous, demanding snacks I didn’t have, yelling over each other. My neatly organized life had become a disaster zone. The younger two were melting down, overtired and overstimulated. The oldest was tearfully asking, “When is Mommy coming back?”
My patience snapped. “I DON’T KNOW!” I yelled, instantly regretting it as the little one burst into fresh sobs. This is unbelievable. How could she do this? I hated her in that moment. I hated her for taking advantage, for ruining my plans, for leaving me stranded with three small children and no explanation. I imagined her, out there, probably enjoying herself, while I was trapped.
Hours bled into evening. I scrounged together some frozen chicken nuggets, cleaned up spilled juice, refereed endless squabbles. I bathed them, read them stories, finally coaxed them into sleep. My friend had stopped texting. The dinner was long over. My night was officially ruined.
I wandered back into the living room, a graveyard of toys and crumbs. Exhaustion heavy in my bones. As I stooped to pick up a stray sippy cup, I noticed something tucked under the cushion of the sofa. A small, worn leather journal. Hers. She must have dropped it.
Should I look? A flicker of doubt. But my anger outweighed my scruples. I flipped it open. It was mostly blank, but tucked deep inside, near the back, was a single, folded sheet of paper. No envelope, just a plain white page.
The note was short. No flowery language. Just a few stark lines.
My eyes scanned the elegant, familiar script. My breath hitched.
It wasn’t a grocery list. It wasn’t a reminder. It wasn’t an explanation for her tardiness.
It was addressed to her husband. And to the kids.
And then, a sentence that hit me like a physical blow, making my legs tremble and the journal clatter to the floor.
“I just can’t do it anymore. I need to get away. I’m sorry. Please take care of them. Tell them I love them.”
I blinked. Reread it. Again.
GET AWAY?
AWAY FROM WHAT?
AWAY FOREVER.
She hadn’t gone on an errand. She hadn’t forgotten about me. She hadn’t taken advantage.
She had been saying goodbye.
And all I could think about, all I could feel, for all those hours she’d been wrestling with a decision that tore her apart, was MY DAMN DINNER.
SHE WASN’T COMING BACK.
