The Way They Leave

There were no words exchanged, they both had already come to an agreement on the terms for their divorce. Cypress sat in silence within the lawyer’s cold office. Watching as his soon to be ex-wife grabbed the papers first, her steady hands gliding across the surface, leaving a trail of familiar swirls and fancy lettering.

Passing the pen and papers across to him, Cypress couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Admiring the rings she still wore on her finger. Picking up the pen with trembling fingers, silently telling himself it’s because of the AC. The only indicator of his true feelings. As his face was stoic, emotionally distant even now— not cold, but detached. Conditioned as he grew up.

He was six years old when his father walked out of their lives, his and his mother’s. At the time he didn’t understand why. Then around 10 years old, other family and friends grow distant or left without a word. By 11, he learned not to expect people to stay. They all walked away eventually.

Only one stood by his side as they watched people come and go. His mother. It was then that he learned, if they care, they’ll stay no matter what. Or so he thought.

Cypress struggled throughout grade school to make and keep friends. Not that he cared. College was a similar experience. It was there that he met her, his wife. It was during his junior year, she saw something that no one else could see. She once told him, “It’s the kindness in your actions, even if your face stays indifferent.”

They dated for three and a half years, he proposed soon after she graduated and got married not long after. They were happy. Bought a house together and welcomed their first child, a daughter. The year after that they had a second, a son. Their home filled with smiles and laughter. He believed everything was great.

He didn’t see it. Didn’t notice. How his wife’s smiles and children’s laughter slowly faded away. Overlooked the pleading gaze, quiet suggestions, and her tired sighs. The way she slowly gave up.

On their marriage.

On his responsibilities to be a father.

On him.

Cypress scrawled his own signature across the dotted line, right besides her own. A sorrowful sigh draws him back to the person across from him. Her eyes locked onto her slim hands. With a twist and turn, she pulled off her wedding and engagement rings. A single tear rolling down her cheek, hastily wiped away.

The lawyer quickly gathers the papers, mumbling about filing, and how we should receive our official divorce certificates in 5-7 business days. His exit went ignored by both Cypress and his ex.

A quiet whisper breaks the trance, “I tried.” she slid the rings across the table towards him. Waiting patiently as he hesitated, but reached for the pair. Gently grabbing, bringing them closer, and caressing the bands as if they were priceless treasures.

“I know you didn’t mean to.” Her tone filled with sympathy and sincerity. “but it’s like you just— stopped seeing me. Seeing us.”

He hadn’t realized.

“It was fine in the beginning. I could see you trying, see your love.” She paused to take a shaky breath. “But it only got worse after your mother passed.”

Cypress was a bit confused, although he didn’t show it. Her hands slowly enclosed his, and waited until he had his eyes on hers.

“I tried to help in any way I could, but you’ve been building your walls for a very long time. Haven’t you?” Her questioning was rhetorical. She knew. Her mother-in-law was exactly the same way, only she knew how to see people and let them in all the way.

It hits Cypress like an eight wheeled truck. He became indifferent as a way to shield himself, a form of protection. But in doing so, he only accomplished in pushing his loved ones away. This wasn’t what he wanted.

The long drive home was deafening. Time appeared at a stand still as he held his keys, not wanting to unlock the last latch. For he knew what waited for him upon entering the house, no longer a home. Tears blurred his vision, as he pressed on and opened the door.

The familiar squeaking of the hinges, brought up memories of his wife asking him to oil them. No more would he get to hear her warm angelic voice. Closing the door, Cypress began to lean on it and slide down until he sat on the cold floor.

His eyes searched for the living room, carefully taking notice of what was no longer there. Certain objects like plants, books, throw blankets, and more were taken when she left. Key items that reflected memories both good and bad. The only proof he had that his family existed once within these walls is propped up on the black counter top window that lets you look into the kitchen.

A 5 x 8 frame with the last family photo they had taken upon their daughter’s 8th birthday. He stood slowly, carefully singing his way towards the picture. Frightened, as if it was a mere illusion. Upon setting his hands on it he sobbed, slowly filling the empty house with his despair.

He realized then, that he didn’t want to be alone. That his wife didn’t choose to walk away. He pushed her away.

He remembers clearly what happened early this morning. How his wife packed the suitcases and placed them promptly into the trunk of her car. Gathering a couple things here and there. Saying her sister would be by to pick up the rest of her stuff while they meet the lawyer and finish the process.

His children had barely finished their breakfast before she ushered them out the house and into the vehicle. They were roughly the same age he was when his father walked out. Their youngest looked back with a confused expression on his tiny face. Waving bye, not knowing it could be the last. They were moving in with her parents until she got things in order.

He wants to stop it. Wants to reach out, but he doesn’t. Can’t. He doesn’t know how.

He understands now. Knows why she drove away and took the children with her.

He understands now, why his father had walked out on them all those years ago. Hating that he does.

Moving through the empty house trying to recall how he let things get this bad, Cypress stops right between his children’s rooms. Running his hand over certain spots on the wall. Tiny scribbles and doodles painted the wall.

He wants to call, to hear their voices, his ex’s and children alike. But he doesn’t. It’s too soon. He didn’t want to stress the children out. He didn’t want to cause her anymore heart ache.

Like a ghost he roams the house, reflecting, not knowing how to make this aching go away. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Turns out I wasn’t left behind,” he whispered, still clutching the picture to his chest. “I was never there to begin with.”