The Quietest Cut

The door groaned. Cold crept in without apology, curling at his boots and trailing behind him like guilt. Snow melted into the wood, soft and slow, as if even it knew not to speak too loud.

She was there. In his chair.

The lamp flickered—weak light against the winter dark. Her knees were drawn, arms folded, a tissue curled in her hand like something forgotten.

He took her in like one takes in a tree line before a snowstorm—still, unmoving, almost beautiful in its silence.

“Baby…” he said, setting his keys down gently on the table. The clink echoed in a room too quiet. “How was school? And Jack today?”

She didn’t answer.

The lamp hummed. The clock ticked. The room sat in the hush of something long since dead. The kind of silence that gathers over time and forgets how to leave.

Then he saw it. A stack of papers beneath the glow.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

His stomach turned, rolled once, settled in his throat.

“What’s this?” His voice snapped the quiet like dry wood.

“Jack’s asleep,” she replied without looking at him.

“You’re leaving me?”

“I already left.”

He stepped forward. The floor groaned beneath him like it resented the weight.

“You—” He scoffed, bitter. “You can’t. I stole that money for—”

“No,” she said, soft but clean, like ice slicing bare skin. “You didn’t do it for us. You did it for you.”

The words landed like snow—light, until you realized how deep you were buried.

She knew.

The money skimmed from client accounts. The late nights, early lies. The bourbon. The girls who weren’t her. The hotel rooms and half-spent excuses.

He opened his mouth. Nothing worth saying came.

A creak behind him.

Small feet. A yawn.

Jack stood in the hallway with his bear, blinking against the dim light.

“Mommy?”

The man softened. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. Come here.”

Jack didn’t move. His eyes went to her.

“ You tell him?”

The air held its breath.

He turned back. “Tell me what?”

The clock ticked once.

Her hands pressed into the arms of the chair.

“Jack isn’t yours.”

The silence split, slow and clean.

He laughed, just once. “That’s not true. Look at him. He looks like me.”

She stared. Unblinking.

“That’s because he’s your father’s.”

No wind howled. No picture fell from the wall.

But something in him gave way.

Jack tugged her sleeve. “Mommy, I’m sleepy.”

She brushed his hair with fingers already familiar with goodbye.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t look back.

Their footsteps faded down the hallway.

A door clicked shut.

The bear remained on the floor.

He bent to pick it up. Didn’t.

His arm swept the papers to the ground.

His knees followed.

A sob broke loose, jagged and short.

From his coat pocket, he pulled out a syringe.

Still capped. Still cold. Still waiting.

His head hung low.

The lamp gave one last flicker.

Then went out.

And in the dark, he gasped.