Good quality, but nothing flashy.
These shirts were different.
Expensive.
Tailored.
Chosen by someone who cared very much about how he looked.
I placed them aside.
Then I found a pair of dark gray dress trousers.
Too narrow for Marcus.
Too short.
There was a tailor’s label inside.
Someone else’s trousers.
I placed them beside the shirts.
Then came three white button-down shirts with dry-cleaning tags attached.
The cleaner was located across town.
Not the place Marcus and Vanessa normally used.
I knew because I had once driven Vanessa to collect their clothes when her car was being repaired.
I sat back on the basement floor and stared at the pile.
My first thought was immediate.
Call Marcus.
My phone was in my pocket.
My hand actually moved toward it.
Then I stopped.
I thought about what would happen if I called him.
The children were outside playing.
Marcus was sitting in my backyard.
It was a normal Saturday afternoon.
And the only thing I truly knew was that I had found men’s clothes that did not belong to my son inside Vanessa’s laundry bags.
I didn’t know why they were there.
Of course, one explanation came to mind immediately.
The obvious one.
But I did not actually know.
And once certain words are spoken, you cannot take them back.
I thought about Frank.
Frank would not have called Marcus from the basement without knowing the full story.
He would have asked himself what was his business and what wasn’t.
My business was the laundry.
Their marriage was theirs.
So I continued sorting.
Vanessa’s pile.
Marcus’s pile.
The children’s clothes.
And the unfamiliar men’s clothes went with Vanessa’s things because they had arrived in her bag.
I put everything back into separate bags.
I decided not to leave the note.
I didn’t start the washing machine.
Then I went upstairs and prepared dinner.
Around six, I called everyone inside.
Vanessa said she would grab the laundry first.
I heard her go down the basement stairs.
Then silence.
