“Maybe we should just get a divorce.”

Thomas said it across our dining room table while his sister was still laughing.

I was standing beside the kitchen island with my phone in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. Dinner was mostly finished. There were six dirty plates on the table, half a pan of baked ziti on the counter, and the prenatal vitamins I had bought that afternoon were visible in a shopping bag near my purse.

I had been married to Thomas for seven years.

I was eight weeks pregnant.

He didn’t know yet.

Neither did anyone else at that table.

Brenda leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

“Well, somebody finally said it.”

Thomas’s mother, Carol, looked down at her plate.

Nobody told Brenda to stop.

I set the serving spoon beside the stove.

“Do you mean that?”

Thomas rubbed one hand over his face.

“Emma, don’t make this bigger than it is.”

“You just suggested divorce.”

“Because I’m tired.”

Brenda gave a small laugh.

“He’s been carrying this whole household for years. Of course he’s tired.”

I looked at Thomas.

He didn’t correct her.

That mattered because Thomas knew exactly who had been paying what.

For years, his family had made little jokes about me working from home. Brenda called my office my “hobby room.” Carol once told a neighbor that Thomas was fortunate enough to let his wife stay home. Thomas never said that himself, at least not directly.

He just never corrected anyone.

That evening, Brenda had finally said it plainly.

“I don’t know how you spend so much money when Thomas is the only one earning it.”

She had been looking at the shopping bags by my purse.

I had gone out that afternoon because my jeans were getting uncomfortable. I had bought two loose sweaters, prenatal vitamins, ginger tea, and a pregnancy book.

I had planned to tell Thomas after everyone left.

Instead, I unlocked my phone.

“You want to know what I bought?”

Brenda shrugged.

“I don’t care that much.”

“Apparently you do.”

I showed Thomas the receipt first.

His eyes moved down the screen.

Prenatal vitamins.

Maternity leggings.

Pregnancy journal.

Then I placed the ultrasound image from my purse beside his plate.

Thomas stared at it.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

“What is that?” Carol asked.

Thomas picked it up.

“Emma?”

“Eight weeks.”

His face changed.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

Carol covered her mouth.

For one second, I thought the entire evening might turn around.

Then Brenda looked from the ultrasound picture to me.

“That’s convenient.”

Thomas turned toward her.

“Brenda.”

“What? I’m just saying. You two are fighting, divorce gets mentioned, and suddenly she’s pregnant?”

“I didn’t become pregnant during dinner.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She didn’t answer.

Thomas placed the ultrasound picture on the table.

I waited for him to say something.

Anything.

Instead, he looked exhausted.

“Can we not do this tonight?”

I picked up the ultrasound picture.

That was the only thing on the table I cared about taking with me.

I Packed One Suitcase

I went upstairs while they were still sitting downstairs.

Thomas followed me about five minutes later.

I had a suitcase open on our bed.

Not two suitcases.

Not boxes.

One medium-sized black suitcase we usually used for weekend trips.

I put in underwear, jeans, sweaters, toiletries, my laptop charger, and enough clothes to last several days. Then I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and removed my passport, financial records, a folder containing documents from the sale of my old company, and a small envelope with my ultrasound photographs.

Thomas stood in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“Emma, come on.”

I zipped the inside pocket.

“You said divorce.”

“I was angry.”

“I asked if you meant it.”

He looked toward the hallway.

“Brenda was pushing me.”

“Brenda didn’t say it. You did.”

He came farther into the room.

“You’re pregnant.”

“I was pregnant downstairs too.”

He looked at the suitcase.

“Where are you going?”

“My parents’ house.”

My parents lived in San Diego, about two hours away. They had no idea what had happened. They didn’t even know about the pregnancy yet.

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed.

“You don’t need to leave tonight.”

I put my laptop into its case.

“Do you want a divorce?”

He didn’t answer.

I stopped packing.

“Thomas.”

“I don’t know.”

That was enough.

Downstairs, Brenda was putting leftovers into containers when I carried the suitcase toward the front door.

She looked at it and then at me.

“You’re seriously walking out?”

“Yes.”

“While you’re pregnant?”

I almost laughed at the question.

Carol stood near the dining room table, twisting a napkin between her hands.

“Emma, maybe everybody should sleep on this.”

I looked at Thomas.

He was standing behind them.

He still didn’t ask me to stay.

So I picked up my purse, pulled the suitcase through the front door, and loaded it into my car.

The ultrasound photograph was inside my purse.

The shopping bag with the prenatal vitamins was on the passenger seat.

I left the baked ziti on the kitchen counter.

By the time I reached San Clemente, Thomas had texted me.

We both need space.

Twenty minutes later:

Maybe divorce really is best.

I pulled into a gas station because I didn’t want to read messages while driving.

The fluorescent lights above the pumps were painfully bright. I sat in the driver’s seat and read his second message twice.

Then I typed:

Okay.

I stared at the screen for a moment before sending one more message.

Then you should let Brenda know Tyler’s next tuition payment is due Friday. I won’t be paying it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

My phone rang.

I didn’t answer.

It rang again.

Then a third time.

Finally, a message appeared.

What are you talking about?

I looked through the windshield at a man washing his windshield at the next pump.

Then I typed:

The $5,000 payment for Tyler’s school.

Thomas called again.

This time I answered.

“Emma, what do you mean you’re not paying it?”

There was no hello.

No question about the pregnancy.

No question about whether I had arrived safely.

Just the tuition.

“I mean I’m not paying it.”

“You can’t just stop.”

“Why not?”

He lowered his voice.

“Because Brenda can’t cover five thousand dollars by Friday.”

“Then she should call the school.”

“Emma, Tyler is already enrolled.”

“I know.”

I knew because I had paid $35,000 toward his tuition over the previous few years.

The first payment happened when Brenda was going through a difficult divorce and said she needed help keeping Tyler in the same school. She had cried at our kitchen table.

I paid it.

The next year, there was another shortfall.

I paid that too.

Eventually nobody asked anymore.

The invoices simply found their way to me.

Thomas knew.

He had always known.

“This isn’t Tyler’s fault,” he said.

“I agree.”

“Then don’t punish him because you’re angry at me.”

I looked down at my ultrasound envelope sitting beside the gearshift.

“I’m not punishing Tyler. I’m stopping a payment that was never my responsibility.”

Thomas was silent.

Then he said something I didn’t forget.

“Emma, this affects everybody.”

I looked at the message above his call.

Maybe divorce really is best.

“Yes,” I said. “It does.”

Then I hung up.

The Numbers Looked Different Once I Was Gone

My parents were awake when I arrived.

Mom opened the front door before I had even turned off the car.

She saw the suitcase first.