My mother left me hungry and lonely at 16. When my…

Instead, I felt a cold, sinking sensation in my gut, a feeling I had grown up with, like missing a step on a staircase in the dark. I pushed the door open. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, but it was the closet that confirmed the feeling in my stomach.

It was gaping open, and where her clothes used to be, there was only a row of empty wire hangers. They chimed softly against each other as the draft from the hallway hit them. Her good coat was gone.

Her shoes were gone. The two suitcases that usually gathered dust under the window were missing. I went back to the kitchen.

That was when I saw the note on the counter, held down by a salt shaker. It was written on the back of an overdue electric bill. Her handwriting was jagged, rushed, the loops of the letters sharp and aggressive.

It did not say she was sorry. It did not say she loved me. It said simply:

I cannot do this anymore.