He did not say goodbye to my mother, my sister, my brother. His palm was sweaty but lodged in the center of it was something square and hard that he left pressed to my hand. Instead, he shook my hand, his grip so firm I felt the bones of my hands crumbling in on themselves. He took only a green vinyl suitcase filled with his clothes and the pack of cigarettes he always left on the small table near the front door.
