One Large Suitcase

The day started off like any other. So bright it felt as if the sheer happiness of the sun might eclipse the feeling of dread pooling in my lower belly. That tightness had been building for weeks—threatening to consume me—mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I finally managed to crawl out of bed, my eyes trained on the suitcase in the corner. Large. Black. Leather tag hanging on the side—a gift from my parents when I decided to travel to Italy one summer.

It used to represent joy, adventure—excitement. Looking at it now, all I see is failure, loss, and the fear of what comes next.

I walked through our house one last time. Committing it to memory. This is where I built my life. Where I celebrated my successes. Where I cried in the corners when life got too heavy. Where we made love until the sun came up.

And today—today I have to decide what I’ll carry with me and what gets left behind.

In one large suitcase.

I look at my bookshelves and mutter under my breath, “Damn.”

I run my fingers across the spines of the books on the first shelf. These stories had been my refuge. Slipping into them allowed me to block out all the outside noise.

Which ones do I keep? Which ones do I sacrifice? And what will I lose in the process?

Of course, I'll keep a few classics: Animal Farm, The Art of War, and Huckleberry Finn. Anything by Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and Octavia E. Butler.

I start pulling books off the shelves. Only a few—maybe six. That’s all I can manage. I have to save room for the remaining remnants of my life here.

My thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of my cellphone on the kitchen counter. I walk over and pick it up. “Not now, Sadie.”

I rub my temples in slow circles. I already feel a headache coming on because I know exactly how this conversation is going to go.

God help me.

I answer anyway.

“Hey, Evelyn,” she said. Her voice was cheerful but cautious.

“Hey, Sadie. I'm kind of busy right now. Can we talk later?”

“I know—I just wanted to check up on you. Are you okay?”

Am I okay, she asks. Jesus Christ, Sadie, I’m packing up my entire life in one bag, and you’re asking me if I’m okay. I want to shout at her as I squeeze the phone so tight I get a cramp in my hand.

But I don’t.

I never do.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “You know me, I’ll bounce back.”

A brief pause.

“You say that, but you’ve been quieter than usual for the past few weeks,” she said gently.

That pool in my belly turned into a tidal wave that flowed up through my ribcage and gathered in my throat. My hands began to tremble—my heart pounding in my ears.

“LOOK,” I snapped, not meaning to. “I’m fine, and I can’t do this with you today.”

“Ev—”

I hang up before she can finish.

***

Last month, my life imploded. I’d already lost my job, and now the person I’d decided to spend the rest of my life with didn’t want to be married to me anymore. And since his name is on the mortgage, I’m the one who has to leave.

Next, I grab a photo album. The one with the floral print. It contained beautiful moments or arguably—vicious lies. Either way, it was practical. I can keep the photos that matter and toss the rest.

My hand is already opening the album before my head screams STOP.

There are a few photos of us individually. Family photos. Trips around the world. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Our wedding day—a whole, perfectly curated life.

We met in college. I kept thinking we were such a cliché. College sweethearts. Two people with big opinions. Big dreams. And so much passion for one another, we could barely keep our hands to ourselves—at least, that’s how it used to be.

He was a few years older, and after graduating, he started working at Lange & Bowen. A big law firm in downtown Indianapolis. He was so damn ambitious, charismatic—and a very convincing liar. Only when he needed to be. It’s what he always used to say.

“A lie by omission is a small lie, Ev,” he’d say. “Who does it really hurt?”

That was the biggest red flag I chose to ignore.

I pull out our wedding photo. Four years of marriage. Two years of infidelity. I feel the tear slide down my face—warm and wet. I swipe it away before it becomes uncontrollable.

I put the photo on the shelf. Leaving it there for him to do with it what he will.

The divorce papers and my laptop were next. I take the manila folder and laptop off the desk and place them on top of the books in the center of the living room.

I look down at the folder. I haven’t signed the papers yet—the fear and shame of our friends and families’ inevitable reactions is so overwhelming that a rush of nausea hits me and threatens to throw me off balance.

I steady myself on the desk chair. Hand gripping the plush headrest. Fingers digging into the fabric.

I did everything I was supposed to do. Graduated. Found a man. Married said man. And maintained our household—a devoted, attentive wife.

It was the unavoidable questions. The whispers and lingering stares. The pressure and uncertainty of having to start over at thirty. I’d grown so accustomed to him taking care of everything. I’d forgotten what it was like to be independent from him.

I made my way to the bathroom. Packing up toiletries and cosmetics. Then slowly moved into the bedroom—stopping in front of our bed. Looking down at the comforter set from his mother.

I always hated that damn set.

It was never my taste. It was always his mother’s. I’d burn it if I thought he wouldn’t file a lawsuit against me for destruction of property.

“Fuck you, Travis,” I yelled. Then calmly picked up a pair of scissors resting on the highboy. I’d been using them last night to cut up paper bags for my breakables, and I cut that abomination to shreds.

“You have shitty taste, Maureen,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face.

I stood there. Took one breath in—one long exhale out, and made my way to the closet. I picked out a few tops, blouses, pants, jeans, dresses, shoes, jewelry, and two purses. The rest I’d have to sell because this man I’d devoted my life to was going to leave me with nothing.

He could afford better lawyers.

That charisma and penchant for lying would serve him well in our divorce proceedings.

I’d lost my job nine months before Travis served me with the divorce papers. I’d worked for K&R Construction as a Program Manager for eight years. One day, a new Chief Financial Officer rolled in—assessed our financial health, and decided to reduce half the workforce.

I’d been a part of that reduction.

The severance was decent. Enough to tide me over for a while. But I’d eventually need to figure something out. Hence, the selling of all my earthly belongings.

“Focus Ev. You have to get this done before he comes home.”

I walk over to my side of the bed and open my nightstand. I pull out a brand-new journal. It was a Christmas gift from Sadie. Her boundless, joyful optimism usually warmed my heart—now it was suffocating.

I opened it. Riffled through all the blank pages. This is a new beginning, whether I like it or not.

I gathered everything and placed the items on the living room floor. Then grabbed the suitcase. Opened it. And started packing.

The brass zipper teeth snagged halfway around the corner, protesting the sheer volume of a life being compressed into polyester and canvas. It wasn’t about what I wanted to keep; it was a ruthless audit of who I was versus who I could afford to be.

I stared at the remaining items piled on the floor. My identity was currently a heap of clothing, six paperbacks with cracked spines, a stiff journal, and a manila folder containing the few legal documents that hadn't been incinerated or liquidated.

No room for the heavy desk lamp. No room for the collection of ceramic mugs that held the ghosts of slow Sunday mornings. I didn’t even pack my vibrator.

Suddenly, the weight of it hit me—not the weight of the bag, but the crushing, suffocating realization that my entire existence was now portable.

My life was on wheels—mobile and forced to wander a new path of my own making.

I grab my favorite jacket from the coat closet. Lift the handle of this large black suitcase and walk out the front door. Hand resting on the doorknob for a beat too long as my life literally flashes before my eyes.

Fear is creeping in.

I hesitate.

I close my eyes. The cool breeze ghosting over my skin. I let go—walk away from everything I’ve known and into the scary and potentially beautiful future.