I tried not to feel guilty. It was for the best, after all.

I moved quietly through the house, thankful for once for the bloody street lamp right outside. For years that damned thing made sleep practically impossible without a sleeping mask and black out curtains.

I guess that wouldn’t be a problem now.

For weeks I’d been secreting things away, an outfit here, a dinner set there. During Andrew’s last night out with “the boys,” I stole into his office and removed my things from the fire box. I could now board an international flight if the mood struck me. Which, who knows, it just might.

I moved carefully down the hall, keeping to one wall then the other to avoid the squeaky boards. I paused outside the last door, unsure if I should go in.

I was through the door before I realized I’d made a decision.

She was still on her back in the crib, little fists held tight, mouth in the round O of sleep. My breasts felt heavier just watching her, and I debated feeding her one last time, but I knew I couldn’t. Not if I was going to go. Instead, I just watched her for a moment.

She still had hardly any hair, but the few wisps she had curled at the end. My hair then. Andrew’s color, though. When I was still pregnant, his mother had shown me baby pictures where he had the same bright blond hair. Remembering playground teasing, I was glad she didn’t have the red.

I looked over her rounded tummy and chubby thighs and wished she could forever stay at an age where these traits were adorable. I thought of Andrew’s comments at dinner with the Webb’s last week, how he stayed my hand when I reached for a last bite of our shared dessert, hid his “Really?” behind a laugh, though I still heard the note of disgust, saw his eyes drop to my belly then my hips.

I dropped my hand there, full eight months ago with growing child, now just full. Losing the baby weight had been harder than I expected. Something Andrew started noting seven months ago.

Every time he brought it up, I had to bite back that I wasn’t the one who slipped the condom off in the middle of sex because it didn’t “feel as good.” If he wanted a slim wife, he should have kept his dick to himself.

I placed my hand on the child’s tummy, let myself revel briefly in the gentle rise and fall of her breaths. Silently asking her forgiveness.

Her face screwed up suddenly, like she was about to loose a terrible cry, but after a small whimper, it relaxed back into sleep.

I let go the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, pulled back my hand, and silently left the room.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, palm pressed to her door.

Then I turned, gathered my bags, and left.