He didn't tell me he was leaving. I came home from grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon and there was a note on the counter — three lines, his handwriting — saying he was staying at his sister's "for a little while." His sister. The one he hadn't spoken to since the baby shower. The one who I assumed hated him. I called her before I even put the groceries away. She answered on the first ring, and her voice was gentle in a way I wasn't prepared for. "He told me what you said," she said quietly. "I'm not picking sides. But he's here, and he's eating, and he's sleeping, and that's more than he's done in a while. So maybe just — give him the space." I sat on our kitchen floor and cried for forty minutes. Not because he was gone. Because of what she said next. "He said something to me about Mom, after you called her name. Something he needs to figure out before he comes home."