Ten days after giving birth to our daughter via emergency caesarean in Canberra, I was still struggling to stand upright without agonizing pain. That was the morning my husband Marcus packed his ski gear for his annual boys' weekend in Thredbo.
'My mates booked this trip nine months ago, Elena,' he said, adjusting his polarized sunglasses in the hallway mirror. 'Your mother is here. You don't need two people watching a baby sleep. Don't be selfish.'
I didn't yell. I didn't beg him to stay. I simply looked at his expensive North Face bags and said, 'Have a safe trip, Marcus.'
While Marcus was drinking schnapps at alpine chalets, my mother and I packed twenty-four boxes. By Sunday night, the house on Lake Burley Griffin was stripped clean of every memory, every piece of baby furniture, and every cent from our joint investment account that my family had seeded.
When Marcus unlocked the front door on Monday afternoon, sunburnt and laughing into his phone, he found an empty living room. In the exact center of the hardwood floor sat his wedding ring, placed on top of a certified foreclosure deed.
The house was in my name, purchased with my grandfather's inheritance. The locks were changed, his security card was cancelled, and his belongings were neatly stored at a commercial depot thirty kilometers outside town.
