My Son Wished for a New Mom on His Birthday

Two brass keys hit the glass dining table with a sharp clack.

"What are you doing?" Noah's voice drifted down the oak staircase.

I didn't answer. I pulled a crisp, white business card from my pocket and slid it right next to the keys. Marina Adler, Family Law.

Noah reached the bottom step. He wore his navy silk bathrobe, the belt tied loosely around his waist. His hair stood up in messy tufts from sleep. He walked past me, his bare feet padding softly against the rug, and stopped in front of the empty kitchen island.

"Where is the coffee?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "And Milo's oat pancakes? He's going to wake up in twenty minutes."

"I'm not making them," I said.

Noah turned around. He finally noticed the three massive, black Pelican cases stacked by the front door. His gaze shifted from the heavy luggage to my coat, then to the keys resting on the glass table.

A short, breathy laugh escaped his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his weight against the hallway wall.

"Are you serious?" he asked, his tone heavy with condescension. "You're still dragging out this little performance? It's morning. The party is over. Drop the act."

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I dialed the number I had saved last night and lifted the device to my ear.

"Yes, I'm in the lobby," I said into the receiver. "Bring the hand truck. We have three heavy cases."

"Who are you calling?" Noah demanded, his smirk faltering for a second.

"The movers," I replied, ending the call.

Noah shook his head, the smug smile stretching back across his face. He actually clapped his hands together once.

"You really think this scares me?" he asked. "You pack a few boxes, call a truck, and I'm supposed to beg you to stay? Is that the plan?"

"I don't want you to beg," I said. "I want you to move out of the doorway."

"You won't last a week," he sneered. He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping just inches from my face. He smelled like stale bourbon and sleep. "Do you have any idea what it costs to live in this city? Your little museum salary barely covers groceries. You think you can afford rent in Boston? Without my credit cards?"

"I'll manage," I said, keeping my voice flat.

"Three days," Noah declared, holding up three fingers right in front of my eyes. "That's how long it's going to take before reality hits you. You'll be sitting in some cramped, freezing studio apartment, crying because you miss your son. You'll come crawling right back to this house, begging me to forgive this ridiculous stunt."

The heavy oak front door swung open before I could respond. Two men in gray uniforms stepped into the foyer, pushing a metal dolly.

"Only the boxes with the blue tags," I instructed them, pointing toward the corner. "My restoration desk and the reference books. Leave the rest."

"Got it, ma'am," the taller mover said.

"Mommy!" a high-pitched voice shrieked from the hallway.

Milo ran out of his bedroom, his bare feet slapping loudly against the hardwood. He wore his green dinosaur pajamas, his small fists rubbing furiously at his eyes. He stopped dead in the center of the living room, staring at the wall behind the sofa.

"Where are my pictures?" Milo yelled.

He pointed a trembling finger at the display wall. The left side, where I used to pin his crayon drawings of triceratops and velociraptors, was bare.

"I took them down," I said.

Milo's face contorted. He threw himself onto the floor, kicking his legs wildly against the expensive wood.

"I want my pictures!" he screamed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "I want my dinosaur eggs! Make my breakfast! Now! Now! Now!"

Yesterday, I would have dropped to my knees in three seconds flat. I would have wrapped my arms around his thrashing shoulders, whispering soothing words, terrified his crying would trigger an asthma attack. I would have rushed to the kitchen to whisk his special allergy-free batter.

Today, I took a single step backward. I kept my hands securely inside my coat pockets.

"Get up, Milo," Noah snapped, though he didn't move an inch to help our son. He glared at me instead. "Look what you're doing to him. Pick him up. Make his food."

"I'm not cooking," I told my son.

Milo stopped kicking for a fraction of a second, shocked by my cold tone.

"From today on," I continued, my voice steady and loud enough to cut through his sniffles, "your Daddy and Aunt Paige are in charge of your meals. They are in charge of your homework, your laundry, and your allergies."

"No!" Milo shouted, slamming his fists against the floor again. "You do it!"

"Aunt Paige is your happy mom now," I said. "Ask her to make your dinosaur eggs."

I turned away from him. The movers hoisted the final Pelican case onto their hand truck and wheeled it out into the hallway.

I followed them. I didn't look back at the living room.

"Hey!" Noah yelled, his footsteps heavy as he chased me out the door.

I reached for the rear door handle of the taxi.

Noah's hand slammed against the taxi's roof, blocking me from opening the door. His smugness had vanished entirely. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched fiercely under his skin.

"If you get in this car, you're done," Noah snarled, his voice dropping to a vicious, ugly whisper. "Do you hear me? You walk away right now, and I will ruin you."

"Move your hand," I said.

"You aren't coming to the firm's charity gala next week," he threatened, leaning his face so close I could feel the heat of his anger. "I'll tell the senior partners you lost your mind. I'll tell them you abandoned your family."

"Tell them whatever you want," I said.

"You won't get a single cent of alimony," he continued, his fingers gripping the edge of the roof. "I'll make sure my lawyers bury you in paperwork. You'll leave this marriage with nothing."

"I already left the keys on the table," I replied.

I shoved his arm away from the door. The metal handle clicked loudly under my grip. I slid into the cracked leather backseat and pulled the door shut with a heavy thud.

Noah banged his fist against the glass. "You're making a mistake!"

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, shifting the car into drive.

"Just drive forward," I said.

The taxi pulled away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the thick Boston fog. I leaned back against the seat and looked up at the rearview mirror. Noah and Milo stood on the sidewalk in front of the large stone columns of the luxury building. The car sped up, and their figures shrank rapidly, dissolving into two tiny, meaningless black dots. I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened Noah's contact profile, and pressed the red button labeled Block Caller.