For four years, I told myself I could survive anything as long as Jane made it to graduation.
That was the promise I lived on when my feet ached too badly to stand, when bills sat open on the kitchen table like accusations, when I came home so tired I forgot whether I had eaten or only thought about eating.
Just get her there, I told myself.
Just get her across that stage.
My husband left when Jane was five.
There was no screaming, no dramatic affair confession, no broken dishes on the kitchen floor. Just one quiet conversation after Jane had gone to bed.
He sat across from me at the table and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
I remember staring at him, confused. “Do what?”
He looked down at his hands.