Chapter 43 Forty Three
Ernest was already halfway out the door.
One hand gripped the handle of his travel bag, the other resting briefly on the doorframe as if he needed the support to steady himself. The house behind him was too quiet, too polished, too tense, for a place meant to feel like home.
“Honey?” Helen’s voice rang out from the living room.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, jaw tightening.
“Yes?” he answered, without turning around.
She appeared in the hallway seconds later, arms crossed, her robe cinched tightly around her waist like armor. Her eyes were sharp, exhausted, brimming with words she had clearly been holding back all morning.
“You’re really leaving again,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Ernest exhaled slowly. “Helen, do we need to keep talking about this. I told you my schedule.”
“You told me you’d be gone for a few days,” she shot back. “But you've not been home for the past three weeks. And now you're travelling again”
He finally turned to face her. “This is work. I don’t have a choice.”
She laughed bitterly. “Funny. You always seem to have a choice when it comes to everything else.”
His shoulders sagged slightly. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I will start,” Helen said, stepping closer. “Because I’m tired, Ernest. I’m tired of explaining to our son why his father is never home. I’m tired of watching him sit by the window every evening, asking if tonight is the night you’ll walk through that door.”
Guilt flickered across his face. “You know that’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” she snapped, “is that you get to leave whenever you want, while I pick up the pieces. Again. And again.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I provide for this family.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. “You provide financially. Congratulations. But you’re absent emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. And don’t pretend you don’t see it.”
Ernest’s grip tightened around the bag. “This isn’t about him. This is about us.”
Helen’s eyes glistened. “No. This is about him. Because I can survive being ignored. He can’t.”
That hit.
He looked away, jaw working. “You know I care about my son.”
“Then act like it,” she said quietly. “Because sometimes it feels like the reason you’re hardly around isn’t just work.”
He stiffened. “What are you implying?”
“I’m saying,” she continued, voice trembling now, “that I know you don’t care about me the way you used to. I’ve accepted that. But our child shouldn’t suffer because you’ve emotionally checked out of this marriage.”
Silence stretched thick and suffocating between them.
Ernest didn’t deny it.
That hurt more than if he had.
He sighed deeply, shoulders slumping under the weight of everything he refused to say. “I can’t do this right now.”
Helen scoffed softly. “You never can.”
He reached for the door again.
“Ernest,” she called, her voice breaking just a little. “I know you don't love me anymore. I doubt you ever did, but try to consider your son in all of these.”
He paused.
“I will call him when I arrive,” he said quietly, and then he walked out.
The door closed with a soft click that sounded far louder than it should have.
Helen stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where her husband had been. Slowly, she sank onto the nearby chair, pressing a hand to her mouth as tears finally spilled free.
At that moment, she wished Antonia was around.
She could really do with a good company right now.
\---
Miles away, Priscillia Walton's restaurant hummed with life.
The lunchtime rush had come and gone, leaving behind the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of staff voices, and the lingering scent of spices and simmering sauces.
Priscillia stood in her office, reviewing paperwork with practiced ease. Her posture was upright, composed, the kind of woman who commanded respect without raising her voice.
A knock sounded on her door.
“Come in,” she called.
The HR manager stepped inside, a tablet clutched to her chest, eyes bright with excitement. “Mrs. Walton.”
Priscillia looked up. “Yes?”
“There’s been a huge turnout for the manager position,” the woman said. “Far more than we anticipated. Applications are still coming in.”
Priscillia nodded calmly. “That’s good.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve scheduled the first round of interviews to begin tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent.”
The HR manager hesitated slightly. “I just wanted to confirm something.”
Priscillia set her pen down slowly. “Go on.”
“The requirement you added… about marital status.”
Priscillia’s gaze sharpened, unwavering. “Yes?”
“Some of the applicants have impressive credentials, but they don’t meet that condition.”
Priscillia folded her hands neatly on the desk. “Then they won’t be considered.”
The HR manager nodded. “I thought so. I just wanted to be sure.”
“I was very clear,” Priscillia said calmly. “Anyone who doesn’t meet all the requirements does not move forward. No exceptions.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Priscillia leaned back in her chair, eyes distant for a brief moment. “Please make sure the interview panel remembers that. I don’t want anyone wasting their time, or mine.”
“Understood,” the HR manager replied.
"Speaking of the interview panel, has my son arrived?" Priscillia quickly asked.
"He called. He said might not meet up for the interview due to some work issues he had to attend to, but he'll be here tomorrow nonetheless."
Priscilla nodded, and excused the HR manager.
As the door closed behind her, Priscillia allowed herself a small, thoughtful sigh.
Experience had taught her many things.
That talent meant nothing without stability.
That ambition without balance eventually collapsed.
And that people who had learned how to commit, to a family, to a partner, often understood responsibility in ways others did not.
She glanced at the calendar on her desk. Tomorrow, her son will be here.
It's been months since she saw him last.
She hoped he would see what she was trying to do.
For the restaurant.
And perhaps, quietly, for him too.
Sending a subtle message on the importance of marriage.
She sighed again, as she wondered if Kennedy would give Love and marriage another shot.