'Cause, I built a home
For you
For me
Until it disappeared
From me
From you

He had left, left her sobbing on the floor of the corridor outside their daughter's bedchamber until sleep finally claimed her. Desdemona had awoken stiff and empty the next morning, and she knew she would not see him that day.

The next, she woke and knew she would not see him that day, either.

On the third day, however, she had risen and dressed neatly, a new resolve blossoming in her chest. Arthur would, Desdemona was certain, return home today, sheepish, embarrassed, and she would welcome him back, for the two days prior had taught her that life was a hollow thing without him. Money...well, the money was not an ideal situation, his gambling could, indeed, prove their ruin as she had loudly claimed on the night of the fight, but didn't love, as was so oft said, conquer all?

Morning ticked into afternoon, afternoon into evening. As Desdemona sat at the dining table, her food lay largely untouched, her attentions fixated instead across the table, the empty place that had been laid for him.

She had been so, so certain that he would come.

She had been wrong.

(How was she always wrong?)

The fifth day came. Arthur did not.

He had never, never remained away for so long, and Desdemona realized what she had been quietly denying all this time: when Arthur had left—the coward!—he had not left the argument. He had left her, their life together. He was not coming back.

She did not cry, for Dezzie had shed enough tears in the past year to last a lifetime. Indeed, she was not certain she had any left.

She had acted, packed, informed their landlord of the Pettigrews' abrupt departure—she had no income, no savings. How could she stay? The housekeeper had been let go with a sterling reference and a month's wages, the nanny kept on only out of necessity. Her mother had promised to welcome her home with open arms.

One last time, Desdemona Pettigrew closed the door to the house she and her husband had shared. What was theirs had been moved already; what was part of the furnishings of the house had been covered, ghosts of a life that had so utterly disappeared left standing vigil in the empty house.

With Gwenog in her arms, Desdemona took the few short steps from door to street and its waiting carriage.

Just like her husband, she left.