Long Lost Everything - A Leaving Sequel

Chapter Two: Spaghetti Bolognese, Pub Crawls, and Some Cursed Sweater Drawer

Julie set down a plate in front of her husband. Spaghetti bolognese.
"Don't you ever cook anything else?" His tone sharp. But Julie was used to it by now, he hadn't used any other tone with her in last eight months... except for that one time, Julie thought to herself. No, shut up. Don't think about that. You've come this far without letting it get to you.
"I thought you like bolognese." Julie replied softly as she set two plates out for her kids.
"I do," he forked at his food, "but not every fucking day."
She sighed, going into the hallway she called out for Dean and Maxine to come downstairs.
"We don't have it every fucking day." She said under her breath; with much more bite than she had intended.
"Did you say something?" It sounded like more a statement, rather than a question.
"No," Julie made her way to the counter, grabbing an empty plate.
"Oh I think you did, Julie." The chair legs grinded against the floor. Julie's back was to Michael. She wasn't going to turn around. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of starting an argument that she knew he'd ultimately win. Not for a lack of her strength, but for a lack of her caring.
"Dean! Maxine! Get down here please your food will be getting cold!" Julie yelled, her voice wobbling ever so slightly. She just hoped that they would come into the kitchen before Michael got angry. He had never hit her in front of their children. And she didn't think that spaghetti would change that. She began spooning out small chunks of the bolognese onto her plate.
She felt a hand grip her shoulder. Michael forced her to face him, "you look at me when I'm fucking talking to you!"
"Get your hand off me." She shook him off. He scowled at her. For a moment Julie thought that he'd drop the whole thing and go back to the table. However, he wrapped his hand tightly around her small arm. Michael looked down at her plate, he grabbed it from the counter.
"Why do you never fucking eat?" He brought the plate up to her face as if she wasn't the one who had portioned it out.
"I do eat." She replied plainly. Refusing to stare up at her husband.
"Not fucking enough, Julie! I can wrap my whole goddamn hand around your upper arm! That's not fucking normal!" He slammed the plate back onto the counter, and in doing so, creating a crack in it, "you haven't been normal since you had th-"
"DON'T!" She screamed, "Don't you dare bring that up!" Tears brimmed in her eyes.
"What's going on?" Maxine asked. She and Dean were standing at the entrance to the kitchen. Michael let go of Julie's arm.
"Nothing," Michael swallowed. Without looking at anyone, he said, "I'm going out."

Julie sat on the garden chair, with her knees brought tightly up to her chest. Michael had been gone for six hours now. She knew where he had went. And she knew the state in which he'd return.

It was a chilly night. The sky was clear and the only thing Julie could hear was the rustling of nearby trees. She didn't want to be up. She didn't want to be plagued by the current thoughts in her head. She had to go to work in four hours. But she couldn't sleep.

I can't believe Michael brought it up. I told him I never wanted to talk about it. Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck this.

It was three AM before Julie went back inside. She was shivering, but somehow had managed to sleep for an hour. In her bedroom, she rifled through a drawer of sweaters. Trying to find the one that would warm her up the most. She had remembered the one that her mother had given her years ago. It was hideous, but she recalled it being extremely cosy. And she could have sworn it was at the very back of the drawer, hidden under a bunch of other equally ugly sweaters. But what she found wasn't a sweater; and certainly didn't make her feel warm and cosy.

She had pulled out a purple babygrow. Along with a tiny red sweater - with gold stitching that read: "Baby's first Christmas", little socks, and small green mittens. All newborn sizes. Julie's heart nearly stopped.