Why Wait

"There's a moment when a threat stops being leverage and becomes a promise you're making to yourself. That's when you know you mean it."

Greta.

The name glowed on the cracked screen, pulsing with each ring. I stared at it, kneeling on the floor of my ruined studio with a bloodstained cloth in one hand and my phone in the other, and felt something twist in my chest.

Greta. Of all people. Of all the names that could have appeared on that screen—Paul, Dawn, even Sandra Holloway calling to deliver her withdrawal in person—it had to be Greta. The woman I'd accused of lying less than twenty-four hours ago. The woman who had always taken Paul's side, always made me feel like an intruder in my own marriage, always looked at me with that particular expression of patient disapproval as if she were simply waiting for me to prove her right about whatever she'd thought of me from the beginning.

The phone kept ringing.

My thumb hovered over the screen, caught between answering and letting it go to voicemail. Part of me wanted to ignore it—wanted to set the phone down and go back to scrubbing at stains that wouldn't come out, wanted to pretend Greta didn't exist, that Adelaide didn't exist, that Paul's entire family could simply fade from my life along with Paul himself.

But another part of me—a desperate, grasping part that I hated even as I felt it pulling at me—wondered if maybe she knew something. Maybe Paul had called her. Maybe he was there, in that house in Craigmore, and Greta was calling to tell me, to broker some kind of reconciliation, to deliver whatever message Paul was too cowardly to deliver himself.

What if she knew where he was?

The phone rang again. And again. Each trill felt like an accusation, a demand, a test I was failing by hesitating.

I answered.

"What do you want, Greta?"

The words came out harder than I'd intended. Sharper. All the tension of the morning—the texts from Sandra and Michelle, the shape at the fence line that might or might not have been Gertrude, the futile scrubbing at bloodstains that refused to disappear—channelled itself into my voice and turned it into something cold and cutting. I heard myself speak and barely recognised the sound. This wasn't the careful, calibrated Claire who had performed stability for Dr Price. This was something rawer. Something closer to what I actually felt.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could almost hear Greta recalibrating, adjusting to the hostility in my greeting, deciding how to respond. When she spoke, her voice had that particular quality I knew so well—measured, controlled, the studied patience of a woman who believed she was always the reasonable one in any conversation.

"Claire, I'm sorry to bother you at what might be an inconvenient time, but I was wondering if you'd happened to hear anything from Paul. Noah and I are both getting quite worried about him."

Worried. She was worried. As if worry were something we shared, as if we were allies in this situation rather than opponents. As if she hadn't spent the last decade undermining me, criticising my choices, making me feel like I would never be good enough for her precious eldest son.

And she was asking me if I'd heard from Paul. Asking me—as if I weren't the one who'd been calling him for days, leaving messages that went unanswered, lying in a hospital bed while the staff tried and failed to reach him. As if I had some secret line of communication that she didn't, some access to my own husband that had been denied to her.

The audacity of it made something flare hot in my chest.

"You're still lying to me, aren't you?" The words spilled out before I could stop them, before I could consider whether they were wise or strategic or anything other than the raw truth of what I felt. "Still covering for him like you always have, like you always do."

"Claire, I promise you with complete sincerity, I am not lying to you about this." Greta's voice remained steady, that infuriating calm that never seemed to crack no matter what I threw at her. "I haven't heard from Paul either, not a single word, and I'm honestly just as worried as you are about where he might be."

Just as worried. The phrase landed like a slap. As if her worry and my worry were equivalent. As if she had spent the last four days watching her life disintegrate, lying awake through the dark hours, being scraped off the floor of her own studio and loaded into an ambulance. As if she had any idea—any idea at all—what I was going through.

I looked around the studio as she spoke. The empty mirror frame. The glass still glittering in piles against the wall. The bloodstains on the floor, faded now but still visible, permanent evidence of the night I'd tried to scrub away. My knees ached from kneeling. My feet throbbed beneath their bandages. My hands were raw from the cleaning, the skin reddened and rough.

And Greta was worried.

"Spare me the martyred mother act, Greta." My voice came out low and venomous, each word carefully weighted with contempt. "I know perfectly well that he's there with you right now, hiding out like the coward he's always been when things get difficult. Well, you can tell him from me that I'm completely done with this situation. I'm taking the kids and going to my sister's place in Queensland. Let's see how he likes that arrangement."

The words surprised me even as I said them. Queensland. I hadn't fully decided—hadn't committed to anything concrete. It had been a fantasy, a vague escape plan forming at the edges of my consciousness. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing myself declare it to Greta of all people, made it suddenly real. Solid. A plan, not just a dream.

I was taking the kids. I was going to Queensland. And there was nothing Greta or Paul or anyone else could do to stop me.

The silence on the other end of the line stretched for a long moment. I could hear Greta breathing—could picture her in that house in Adelaide, probably sitting in her perfect living room with her perfect husband somewhere nearby, processing what I'd just said. Processing the threat I'd just made.

Good. Let her process it. Let her understand, finally, that I wasn't going to sit here waiting forever while her son decided whether or not to come home.

"Claire, please." Greta's voice had changed—softer now, more tentative, the confident calm beginning to crack at the edges. "You can't just take the children away like that. I'm sure Paul wouldn't want—"

"Don't you dare tell me what Paul wants!"

The words exploded out of me with a force that surprised us both. I was on my feet suddenly, though I didn't remember standing—my body moving of its own accord, the phone pressed hard against my ear, my free hand clenched into a fist at my side.

"Don't you dare," I repeated, my voice shaking now with the effort of containing everything that wanted to spill out. "You have no right—no right at all—to tell me what Paul wants. Paul isn't here. Paul hasn't been here since Tuesday. Paul walked out on me and his children without a word, without a note, without any explanation, and he hasn't answered a single phone call or message since. So don't you dare stand there in your comfortable house and tell me what Paul wants when Paul has made it perfectly clear that what he wants is to pretend we don't exist."

I was crying. I realised it distantly, felt the hot wetness on my cheeks, tasted salt at the corner of my mouth. But I couldn't stop. Couldn't pull back, couldn't reassemble the careful mask I'd worn at the hospital. The dam had broken and everything was flooding out—all the fear and fury and desperate hurt I'd been holding back since Paul had climbed out the window.

"Claire, I know you're angry with all of us." Greta's voice was gentle now, placating, the tone you used with a child having a tantrum or a dog that might bite. I hated it. Hated the condescension beneath the kindness, the implication that my anger was something to be managed rather than something justified. "And you have every right to be furious about this situation. But please, I'm asking you to think carefully about what you're proposing. Taking the children away from their father, from their home, from everything familiar... it's not going to be the answer to what's wrong."

Taking the children away from their father. As if their father were here. As if their father had given any indication that he intended to come back. As if I were the one destroying this family by trying to salvage what was left of it.

"Oh, spare me the sanctimonious lecture, Greta." I wiped my face with the back of my hand, smearing tears across my cheek, not caring how I looked or sounded anymore. There was no one here to see. No one to perform for. Just me and the ruins of my studio and Greta's voice in my ear, dripping with concern I didn't believe for a second.

"You've always thought you knew what was best for everyone else, always had all the answers, but you have absolutely no idea what it's actually like to be in my shoes. To be left completely alone, wondering if your husband is ever coming back, if he even cares about you and your children at all, if everything you've built together means anything to him."

My voice cracked on the last words. I pressed my free hand against my mouth, trying to hold in the sob that wanted to escape, trying to maintain some shred of composure even as everything else fell apart.

Greta was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had softened even further—almost gentle now, almost kind. Almost as if she actually cared.

"Claire... I'm so genuinely sorry. I honestly can't imagine how difficult and frightening this situation must be for you. But please, I'm begging you, don't do anything irreversible while you're this upset. Let's just take a step back and—"

"I'm done talking, Greta."

The words came out flat and final, all the fire suddenly drained from my voice. In its place was something colder. Harder. The clarity that came when you'd burned through everything else and found bedrock beneath.

"I've completely made up my mind about this. Paul has until tomorrow morning to show up at our front door and explain himself properly, or I'm gone with the children. And if you really care about him as much as you've always claimed to, you'll make sure he gets that message."

I didn't wait for her response.

I ended the call. Pulled the phone away from my ear. Stood there in the wreckage of my studio, staring at the cracked screen as it faded to black.

Silence.

The word felt inadequate for what filled the room in the wake of my voice. It wasn't just the absence of sound—it was something thicker, heavier, a presence rather than a void. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven. Could hear the faint creak of the building settling in the cold. Could hear my pulse hammering in my ears, the aftermath of adrenaline still flooding my system.

Tomorrow morning.

I'd said it. Out loud. To Greta, of all people. An ultimatum delivered and received, a line drawn in the sand that couldn't be undrawn. By now Greta was probably already calling Noah, telling him what I'd said, the two of them putting their heads together to figure out how to reach Paul. If Greta could reach him. If anyone could reach him. If he was reachable at all, or if he'd simply vanished into some void where phones didn't ring and messages didn't penetrate and wives and children faded to irrelevance.

The ultimatum was real now. Public. I couldn't take it back even if I wanted to.

Did I want to?

I looked around the studio—really looked, taking in every shard of glass, every faded bloodstain, every piece of evidence of the night I'd lost control. The empty frame where the mirror used to be. The bucket of dirty water growing cold in the corner. The cloth I'd dropped when the phone rang, lying in a damp heap on the stained floor.

This was my life now. This wreckage. These ruins. This town that was already turning against me, mothers withdrawing their daughters, neighbours watching from fence lines, gossip spreading through networks I couldn't see but could feel closing around me like a net.

And Paul wasn't coming.

I knew it with a certainty that settled into my bones like winter cold. Whatever had made him leave—whatever dissatisfaction or crisis or cowardice had driven him out the window Monday evening—wasn't going to dissolve overnight. He wasn't going to suddenly appear at the front door tomorrow, full of apologies and explanations. He wasn't going to call, wasn't going to text, wasn't going to give me any indication that he remembered he had a wife and children who were waiting for him to come home.

I'd given him until tomorrow morning.

But tomorrow morning felt like a lifetime away.

Another night in this house. Another night alone with the empty rooms and the unwashed dishes and the particular silence of a home where half the people who used to live there had vanished. Another night lying awake, listening for a car in the driveway, checking my phone every few minutes for messages that never came.

Another night for the gossip to spread. For more mothers to compose their carefully worded withdrawals, more deposits to be requested back, more of what I'd built to crumble into dust. By tomorrow morning, how many more texts would be waiting? How many more families would have decided that Claire Smith was no longer someone they wanted anywhere near their children?

And Gertrude. That shape at the fence line, that presence I could feel even when I couldn't see it. Gertrude was out there, collecting information, storing up observations, ready to share with anyone who would listen. Every hour I stayed was another hour for her to watch, to speculate, to weave her narrative about the dance teacher who'd been carried away in an ambulance and come home to hide in her ruined studio.

Why wait?

The thought arrived sudden and sharp.

Why wait until tomorrow morning? Why give Paul another day to not show up, another deadline to miss? Why spend another night in this town that was already closing ranks against me, when I could be gone—could be hours down the road, putting distance between myself and everything that had happened here?

The logic unspooled in my mind, quick and compelling. I could leave now. Today. Drive to Dawn's house, collect the children, pack the car. We could be out of Broken Hill before sunset, heading east while the light faded behind us. Until Broken Hill was so far behind us it might as well be another planet.

Queensland. Amelia. The big house in Brisbane with its pool and its tropical warmth and its standing invitation. We'd visited before, the four of us, and it had been glorious—the kids splashing in the pool, Paul almost relaxed for once, Amelia's easy hospitality smoothing over all the rough edges of our lives. We could have that again. Or something like it. A place to breathe, to think, to figure out what came next without the weight of Broken Hill pressing down on us.

Two thousand kilometres between myself and this disaster. By the time anyone realised we were gone, we'd be halfway to Brisbane.

The thought was intoxicating.

I turned slowly, looking at the studio with new eyes. The mess was still here—would still be here tomorrow, next week, next month. But I didn't have to be. I didn't have to stay and clean and repair and explain and apologise. I could simply... leave. Walk away. Let someone else deal with the wreckage while I put a continent's worth of distance between myself and everything that had gone wrong.

The mirror could wait. The floor could wait. The parents with their questions and their withdrawals—they could all wait. None of it mattered if I wasn't here to face it.

The snap happened without warning.

One moment I was standing in the ruins of my studio, paralysed by indecision and despair. The next I was moving—dropping the cloth I'd been clutching, stepping over the glass without bothering to pick a careful path, crossing the room with a purpose I hadn't felt since before Paul left.

I was leaving.

Now.

Today.