Hundred and Seventy Seven

Hundred and Seventy Seven
The morning after Declan left, the silence was unbearable. He hadn’t come home at night, since he said he needed space, and I wasn’t expecting him in the morning either.

He had texted me a simple line - Staying away for a few days. Take care of yourself and Noah. 

He hadn’t taken much. Just a duffel bag, his laptop, a few shirts. But his absence filled every inch of space, as if he’d somehow taken the oxygen out of the air with him.

Noah padded out of his room in his socks, clutching the stuffed elephant Declan had bought him. His hair was a mess, his eyes puffy with sleep.

“Where’s Declan?” he mumbled.

I forced my lips into a smile that felt stiff. “He had to go somewhere for a few days, sweetheart. Work stuff.”

Noah blinked. “Without saying bye?”

My throat burned. “He didn’t want to wake you.”

Noah’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded, already distracted by the cereal box on the counter. 

When Jacob came by to take him to school, Noah practically bounded into his arms, all excitement about his art project.

“You okay?” Jacob asked, his tone easy but his eyes searching.

“Fine,” I lied.

He gave me that look, the one that said he didn’t buy it, but wasn’t going to press. “If you need anything…”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

When the door closed behind them, the silence crashed back down.

I stood there, staring at the empty hallway, waiting for the sound of Declan’s key turning in the lock. I waited and waited and waited. But the hours passed. He didn’t come.

By evening, I was still pretending to function normally. I was folding laundry, washing dishes, answering work emails I didn’t even read. Everything felt like I was doing it on autopilot. I kind of was.

The doorbell rang just as I sat down with a cup of tea.

My heart stopped in my chest.

For half a second, I thought it was him.

But it was just a delivery guy, holding a paper bag that smelled very familiar.

“Willow Whitefield?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

He smiled. “Dinner delivery. It’s been paid for.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Someone else must have.” He handed over the receipt, shrugged, and left.

The moment I set the bag on the counter, I knew.

The smell of that penne arrabbiata with extra olives. My favorite. The one he always ordered for me when I forgot to eat.

Inside, there was a folded napkin, tucked next to the plastic fork.

Eat something. You forget when you’re sad. — D

I sat down at the table, staring at the food I suddenly couldn’t bring myself to eat.

“You’re not supposed to be taking care of me,” I whispered to no one. “Not when you’ve left.”

But even saying it out loud didn’t make it true.

Because of course he was still taking care of me. That was who he was. I knew, even if he never came back, he would always take care of us.

The next morning, a new delivery came. This time, groceries. All the brands we used - the oat milk Noah preferred, the cereal Declan teased me about for being basically like eating sugary
cardboard.

The delivery tag said: Paid by D.A.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

And I didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious.

By the third day, I found a plumber’s receipt tucked under the fruit bowl. He’d finally fixed the leaking pipe I’d been ignoring for months.

A small envelope arrived later that week. Just two tickets to the children’s museum Noah had been begging to visit. No note this time. Just knowing.

He was everywhere without being here at all.

And I hated that it made me miss him so much more. 

I wanted to talk to him, see him, feel his skin on mine. I wanted to solve this together.

That night, I dreamed of him.

Not the younger Declan, the young, reckless man I had made Noah with. No, I dreamt of this version of him: older, tired, the lines around his mouth deeper, eyes still full of that same impossible tenderness.

In the dream, he was sitting beside me on the bed, just watching.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered. “You’re not here.”

He smiled, small and sad. “I never really left.”

When I woke up, my pillow was damp.

By Friday, Noah asked.

He came home from school quiet, no wild stories to tell, no unfunny jokes. 

After dinner, while I was rinsing plates, he lingered at the counter.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

He hesitated. “Did I do something wrong?”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“Declan’s gone.” His voice was small. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

I set the dish down carefully, turned to face him, and knelt. “Hey, look at me. That’s not true. I told you, baby, Declan has work. This is not your fault at all.”

He bit his lip. “Then why’d he go?”

“Sometimes grown-ups need time to figure things out,” I said softly. “To think.”

“About what?”

I smiled weakly. “About how to be better for each other.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Is he coming back?”

The question punched through my chest.

“I think so,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

And that was it. He wandered off to his room, humming under his breath.

But the damage was done. 

That night, I found the next sign.

On my nightstand was a book. The one I’d left in his car last week. The spine was cracked open to the exact page I’d last read, a blue ribbon marking it.

Inside was a note.

You left it in the car. Figured you’d want to know how it ends. — D

I pressed the book against my chest, tears stinging my eyes.

Because I didn’t know how we ended either.

But if his quiet gestures meant anything… maybe we hadn’t.

The next few days passed like that. The quiet safety and truth of someone loving me from a distance.

Everywhere I looked, there he was in the things he’d fixed, the routines he’d left behind.

Even Noah felt it. One morning he came out wearing Declan’s old hoodie, drowning in it, and grinned. “It smells like him,” he said.

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “I think he misses us.”

That Sunday, I finally gathered the courage to drive past the building his other flat was in. 

I told myself it was a coincidence. That I was just running errands.

But when I parked across the street, my fingers gripping the steering wheel, I caught sight of him through the glass lobby doors.

He was standing by the elevator, talking to the doorman. He looked tired, but alive. Dressed in the same gray sweater I had seen him in days ago.

I didn’t get out. I didn’t honk.

I just sat there, watching him.

When he turned slightly, as if he felt me watching, I ducked down in my seat and laughed at myself, a shaky, ridiculous laugh that dissolved into tears.

That night, as I lay in bed, I reread the note from the pasta delivery. The ink had smudged slightly where I’d touched it too many times.

Eat something. You forget when you’re sad. — D

I whispered into the dark, “I miss you too.”

And maybe, wherever he was, he heard me.

Because the next morning, there was a new text on my phone. No name, no greeting, just three words.

Can we talk?