Chapter 3 - The Departure Protocol
I didn't panic, and I didn't rush. Precision was my only objective.
"Liam, Noah," I called out, my voice ringing through the house with an unusual, commanding calmness that instantly halted their brawl. The two older boys appeared in the kitchen doorway, sweaty and wide-eyed, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure.
"Mom? Is Dad gone?" Liam asked, eyeing the abandoned pancakes.
"He is," I said, walking to the pantry. "Here is what is going to happen for the next twenty minutes. I am setting up the living room. You two are in charge of guarding the twins. If Sam puts anything smaller than an apple in his mouth, you take it away. Leo, you sit on the couch. You are all watching *Finding Nemo*. No fighting. If everyone behaves, there will be ice cream later."
I set the twins down in the oversized, enclosed playpen in the center of the living room, surrounded by soft toys, board books, and sippy cups filled with water. I started the television, handing Liam the remote.
Then, I marched into the master bedroom.
I didn't take my time packing. I didn't agonize over choices. I grabbed my leather weekender bag from the top shelf of the closet—the one we had purchased in Florence during our honeymoon, thick and supple, smelling faintly of Italian leather and old romance.
I packed three silk dresses I hadn’t worn since Obama’s second term. I packed my favorite cashmere sweater, dark designer denim, beautiful lace lingerie that had spent four years buried under practical nursing cotton, my makeup kit, and my expensive skincare serums that had sat collecting dust on the bathroom shelf. I packed my curling iron, three unread novels from my nightstand, and a pair of strappy four-inch stilettos that Carter always claimed made my legs look endless.
I stripped out of my filthy clothes and stepped into the bathroom. I didn't take twenty minutes; I took eight. I washed the grease and milk from my skin with scorching water, scrubbed my teeth until they shone, and pulled my hair back into a clean, sleek chignon. I dressed in an elegant cream-colored knit lounge set, slipped on leather loafers, and sprayed my neck with Tom Ford perfume.
Looking in the vanity mirror, I didn't see the broken ghost of an exhausted mother. I saw Elena Vance. I saw the woman who held a master’s degree in art history, who used to speak fluent French, who used to dance until dawn in Barcelona before she became an unpaid superintendent to an ungrateful man's fantasy.
Before I picked up my bag, I pulled out my phone and dialed my sister, Clara, who lived twenty minutes away.
"Clara," I said, my tone brisk and steady.
"El? Are you okay? The twins aren't sick again, are they?"
"Everyone is breathing. Listen to me very carefully. I am walking out of the house in six minutes. Carter is at the country club playing eighteen holes. He thinks I am home playing martyr."
A pause on the line. "Elena... what are you doing?"
"I am checking into The Grandview downtown until Monday morning."
Clara gasped—a sharp, delighted intake of breath. "Are you serious? You're leaving him with all six?"
"He told me I was 'no fun anymore' and that he was sick of my exhaustion. So, I am going to find my fun. But I need you to do one thing for me. I need you to do an drive-by at three-thirty. Do not go inside. Do not offer to help. Just park across the street, verify that Carter’s car is in the driveway, and text me that the children are physically supervised. If his car isn't there by four, you call him and tell him you saw the front door open. But under no circumstances do you step in and save him. Do you understand me?"
Clara was laughing so hard she was snorting. "Elena, this is magnificent. This is scorched earth. I will be your recon officer. Go. Run!"
"Thank you. I love you."
I hung up. I walked down the hall, my leather bag swinging lightly from my shoulder.
In the kitchen, I went to the junk drawer and retrieved a pair of ridiculously oversized, neon-pink heart-shaped novelty sunglasses that Maya had received in a birthday party favor bag. I laid them dead center on the kitchen island, right beside the stove where the cold pancake griddle sat.
Beneath the glasses, I smoothed out a crisp sheet of printer paper and uncapped a black Sharpie. I wrote, in large, elegant, unmistakable script:
> *Carter,*
>
> *You were absolutely right this morning. I took a hard look in the mirror and realized I really HAVE been a total drag lately. I’ve lost my sparkle!*
>
> *So, I took your excellent advice. I’ve decided to go find my fun side again!*
>
> *I’ve checked myself into The Grandview Spa downtown for the entire weekend. Since you were the visionary who always dreamed of having a bustling home with six amazing kids, I know you are going to cherish every single second of this vibrant noise without me bringing down the vibe.*
>
> *A quick logistical briefing:*
> *- The twins need solid food at noon, followed by a nap (good luck with Sam’s molars!).*
> *- Noah has soccer practice at 2:00 PM (uniform is somewhere in the laundry heap in the basement).*
> *- Leo refuses to eat anything that touches anything else on his plate.*
> *- Liam knows the Wi-Fi password, but will trade it for your sanity if you aren't careful.*
>
> *I’ll see you late Sunday night! Enjoy your massive, beautiful family!*
>
> *Stay fun,*
> *Elena*
I set the Sharpie down. I looked at the note, then at the bright pink sunglasses perched atop it. It looked like an art installation titled *The Breaking Point*.
I walked into the living room. The kids were glued to the screen, watching a cartoon clownfish traverse an ocean.
"Liam," I said, kneeling beside him. I kissed the top of his head. "Daddy will be home shortly. Be a good big brother."
"Where are you going, Mom? You look pretty."
"Thank you, sweet boy. Mom is going to get her sparkle back."
May you like
I walked out the front door, tossed my luggage into the trunk of my crossover, slid into the driver's seat, and pulled out of the driveway. As I turned the corner of our street, my hands were not shaking. They were completely, wonderfully still.
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