“Arthur, you can’t do that,” she whispered.

“We have bills.”

“Megan’s rent is due.”

“She has to pay her utilities.”

“She can find a job,” my father said.

“And you can find a lawyer.”

The words seemed to hang in the damp air of the hallway.

My mother gasped.

“A lawyer?” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I am filing for divorce, Evelyn,” my father said.

He picked up his keys from the small table by the door.

They jingled in his hand.

“I am not going to spend the rest of my life paying for a lie.”

“Arthur, please,” she sobbed.

She reached for his arm, but he stepped back.

He opened the front door of my apartment.

The hallway outside was quiet and smelled of old paint and damp carpets.

He stepped out onto the landing.

He looked back at me one last time.

“Goodbye, Clara,” he said.

Then he turned and walked down the stairs.

His heavy footsteps echoed in the concrete stairwell.

The fire door at the bottom of the stairs clicked shut.

My mother stood by the open door, staring out into the empty hallway.