The sunlight stung my eyes, promising that today’s weather wouldn’t be marred by the presence of clouds. A child whooped from somewhere outside, confirming to me that today was the kind of day that begged everyone to leave their homes, go outside and soak up the warmth.

But I was cold inside.

The outside sounds of laughter faded away, replaced by the ticking of the clock; he’d wake up soon.

I rose from the couch, the items in the pits of my arms, weighed down my shoulders. I lifted myself higher, forcing my back to crank upright.

My first steps were more like clumsy shuffles, as I steered myself around the living room furniture. There wasn’t enough time to take the blue stools with me, or enough space on the bus for them. I tried not to think about the seat cushions, the black and white, ranchers’ plaid fabric, I had worked so hard to sew by hand. My fingers tingled at the memory of needle pricks I gave to myself as he had patiently taught me the craft.

I was leaving.

The thought made the back of my throat sting. A wad, beginning to grow. I couldn’t swallow it, couldn’t force it down.

In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the different sized frames strune about the room. The wad in my throat grew to the size of what felt like an egg, making me choke back moisture from my eyes. There was the time we went to my niece’s birthday party; our eyes were even smiling from all the fun that day. Or the one we took while carving pumpkins for Halloween. I could feel the squishing, squash guts between my fingers, the cider bubbles in my stomach.

I tore my eyes away from all those memories, not before a tear rolled down my cheek, dropping to the floor of our apartment.

It had always been me and him. We had always been the perfect couple. Two people, made for each other.

But that’s all we were, two people. Nothing more. No third or fourth.

I sobbed at the realization we’d come to, on the night of our fifth-year anniversary: he never wanted kids.

More tears fell, their pitiful droplets, dabbled my toes, the exposed skin from my open toed shoes.

I would never be a mother. I forced myself to let that thought come full focus. I would never be a mother if I stayed with him.

I opened the front door, unable to feel the Sun’s rays on my skin.