He snuck out in the middle of the night. Quietly, he placed some clothes in a gym bag and walked out the back door. A streetlight cast light on the middle-aged man as he walked over frozen snow crunching under his boots. I’m done, he whispered. Time to leave yesterday behind.

And what was yesterday? A sexless marriage? Nagging wife? Ungrateful children? Work that was unrewarded? All of it, he muttered with a cigarette dangling from his lips. All of it.

The husband could not wait for a divorce. He didn’t tell her of his unhappiness. Money was left for them. That’s all they cared about, he laughed. Buy this, pay for that, he said, standing, waiting for the bus. They’re all children waiting to be changed.

Going downtown, he noticed all the shops and bars closed. Places he used to go to. The bookstore, where he bought Moby Dick had a light on inside. The owner often slept there. The middle-aged man would miss talking to him about literature, politics, and life. He waved at the store as the bus went past. The downtown diner was open. The fat man went there every Saturday to write in his journal over cups of coffee during his younger days. Now, he could write all the time if he chose; the freedom of being alone.

As he walked into the Greyhound station, he saw her there along with their two teenage children; the boy yawning and the girl looking at her phone.

And the wife? She had her arms outstretched. Saying, welcome home.