Member-only story
Empty Tank
When Nothing Remains
Drew sat at another red light, knuckles white on the wheel. 9:43 PM. He’d missed bedtime again. Third time this week. His phone had buzzed earlier with Kat’s text: Kids asking for you. Told them tomorrow.
No accusation. Just fact.
The light changed and he drove through empty streets, rolling down the window to let the cold October air keep him awake.
Their house was dark except for the porch light and bedroom window. A plate of spaghetti waited on the counter, covered in foil with Kat’s note: Heat 2 min. Wine in fridge.
Drew touched her handwriting, guilt twisting deeper. Seven years married and she still cared if he ate. He put the plate in the microwave without removing the foil, watching blue sparks dance until he realized his mistake.
“Shit,” he muttered, jerking the door open.
He ate cold pasta standing at the counter. The house was too quiet. On the fridge hung Emma’s kindergarten painting next to Logan’s attempt at writing his name, the ‘g’ backward. Drew wondered when his son had learned to write that much. Had he been there for it?
Kat was in bed scrolling through her phone when he walked in.
“Hey,” he said.
