He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, teeth clenched.
But I am only human. I feel as though one more hit, one more betrayal, would break me beyond the point of wanting to continue. That is why I need space now, to remember who I am beyond your mother and your father's partner.
Pain like no other closed around Ronin's throat like a vice. He'd told himself she would never leave; that their fights, her silences, were temporary storms. She had always loved him more than he did her, didn’t she? He had been aware of her infatuation even when he was with Mia. He had taken her work, her devotion as his due while withholding a little bit of himself. He had hoped they could talk, at least for David's sake, and rebuild what he had broken, but he hadn't believed she'd walk.
But she had, decisively. And she hadn't left a word for him. Not a line, nor a single goodbye.
The letter slipped from his fingers onto the table. For a long moment he just sat there, staring at it as if the words might change if he willed them to. Then panic seized him.
He snatched up his phone, thumb jabbing at her number. It rang and rang before it went to voicemail.
"Sage, it's me. Please...please call me. Just tell me where you are. I'll come to you. We'll talk. We can fix this."
He hung up and dialled again.
Voicemail.
"Sage, I'm begging you. Don't shut me out. You don't have to do this alone."
Again. And again. His voice grew hoarse, words tumbling into one another, alternating between anger and desperation.
"Why won't you answer? You can't just vanish! We're not done. We've got David, we've got years... You can't throw it all away. I'll do anything, just...answer the phone!"
By the time the shadows of dawn stretched long across the kitchen floor, his calls were rolling straight out of her voicemail. When he tried again, the automated voice came cold, final, "This mailbox is full and cannot accept new messages."
Ronin lowered the phone slowly, numbness spreading like ice. He'd left her dozens of pleas, apologies, promises, even threats...words that may never reach her now. The silence on the other end was absolute.
He sat in the kitchen, the neat instructions still on the counter, the letter to David crumpled by his hand. For the first time since he had piled mistake upon mistake, he admitted the truth to himself.
He might have already lost her.
Chapter 19
He had made a number of mistakes over the years. He had allowed himself to take her for granted. He remembered her birthdays and their anniversaries, but he forgot what had attracted him to her in the first place. He had let her fire die down to embers and did nothing to stoke it. But those were the least of his crimes. He had shared himself with another woman while she waited for him to come home. She had trusted him, and he had proven in so many ways that he wasn't worthy of that trust.
She hadn't spoken a single word to him since she found out except to ask him if she should move out. Her silence had cut sharper than any accusation, cut deeper than his son's hatred.
And yet, even in her silence, she had cared for them. Ronin saw it everywhere. The laundry baskets were empty; clothes folded in neat piles. The freezer was stacked with labelled containers—meals that Sage had prepared in advance. The fridge shelves were lined with vegetables, milk, fresh bread; things she had thought to leave behind. Even in leaving, she had been looking out for them. The knowledge gnawed at him.
The next few days blurred into each other. David stayed locked in his room, his footsteps muted overhead. When he finally came down, his eyes were red, his face blotched. He ignored the plate Ronin put in front of him, pushing food away with shaking hands. "I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat, D-man," Ronin tried gently, but the boy's shoulders only stiffened.
"No, I don't. And stop calling me that. Don’t pretend you care when you don’t."
The words landed like a slap. David pushed back from the table and stormed upstairs again, his door slamming a beat later. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.
School went on, but half-heartedly. He was in his Year 10, and he needed to focus, but his mother's absence had dulled him. When his mates turned up with their kits, insisting he come to football practice, he had flat-out refused.
"What's the point?" was all he'd said in a lifeless voice and shut his door again. His son sounded defeated, and it was all his fault.
Ronin couldn't blame him. The boy was grieving in his own way. But the sight of him—slumped, withdrawn, and broken—was harder to bear than his own guilt.
David's muffled sobs every night were like echoes of his failure.
Their beautiful house dragged him down with it. Each room carried Sage's touch—the soft lace curtains she had chosen, the carefully hung frames on the stairwell, the scent of her soap lingering in the bathroom. In the evenings, he'd sit alone at the dining table, staring at the runner she'd laid out last Christmasand decided not to change, thinking this was more her house than his.
She made it a home; I only lived in it.
