She looked at the house once she thought would be her home. A house full of memories for the short time they had spent in it. Though he had left, his presence there was felt, with shirts forgotten and other files he had spread around on the floor. She wanted herself not to cry, not to be weak, and not to give into that need for him to be there, but failed.

Her clothes fit into one bag, a green bag he used to take his clothes in when he went home to spend his off days leaving her behind. Folded and crammed in, she managed to fit it all in. Her books she had no strength to carry. She had only two hands and a belly that protruded and blocked her way at most times. Her life with him seemed a few months, a few cloths, a few books and a son left behind.

Their home never had time to become a home. At least looking back she felt that she might have lived an illusion. She believed he would be back, he would come and that they would be happy and their child would make them happy. A child they had decided to bring up and he had wanted to name “Moksha”. Her child he had decided to leave behind, and had made up his mind to not see.

It was late, but not too late to leave, to leave the place where she was not wanted, where tears clung onto her face too often with memories of a man, who made her happy when home, and then turned into a being she did not grasp the moment he stepped out of their house.

She wondered, how things would have been , had she liked a different type of music, had she read fantasy novels, and had she worn more revealing cloths with bigger earrings.. would he have meant his “I love yous”? would he have not cheated? Would their son have had a father and not just a mother who would have to work every moment to give him what he needs, without depending on the world for anything?

She closed the door behind her one last time, and walked down carrying her bag of clothes, hoping one day her son would make her proud, and become a better man where his father had failed.