Credence

by Penelope Douglas

But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.

“I’m going to go home,” I say quietly. “You are home.” He sets a mug in front of me.

Everyone contemplates suicide at some point, even if it’s just for a minute. And one thing is usually the root cause. Loneliness.

“I love you, Kaleb,” I cry quietly. “I love you.”

I stare at Kaleb, a horrible feeling falling over me instead of relief, though. He’s not going to fight for me. He won’t write to me. He won’t sign. He’ll never talk to me. He’ll never communicate with his children if he has any.

“You actually left Colorado.” “It was time,” he says. I suck in a breath, his words hitting me like truck.

“My home is where you are,” he says quietly.