I lean against the doorframe and watch as she packs. She's methodical: folding shirt sleeves inwards to avoid crushing, rolling pants into long cylindrical shapes to prevent odd creases.

The window is open and a cool breeze wafts through the bedroom. Summer is over and I want to blame the weather for the fact that she's leaving me but I know how stupid I'll sound.

She'll laugh at me.

She's laughed at me for years, eyes bright with mirth. I remember every single year, every month, every day. I've spent nearly twenty years with her, loving her, looking after her.

And now she's leaving.

She turns around to pull another pair of pants from the closet, notices me standing there, and gives me a small smile. She doesn't say anything and I wonder how, after eighteen years, she can be so calm about it. How she can pack a bag and walk away as if she doesn't love me. She says she loves me - always has and always will - but I don't believe her.

She can't love me if she is leaving me.

I stare at her as she wraps a blue blouse in tissue paper. I gave her that blouse for her birthday last year. It matches her eyes, sets off the golden highlights in her hair. I remember standing in the store and running my fingers over the silk, imagining how beautiful she'd look.

I remember every birthday, every Passover, every Christmas. I bought her a tiny, fluffy kitten ten years ago because she gave me that pouty smile I could never resist. It took me a while to get used to the fact she called it Mittens. I argued with her for days about giving an animal such a stupid name until she climbed on my lap and gave me a kiss and told me to shut up.

She's not taking him with her and Mittens, still a big fat ball of fluff, is lying on the bed, watching me through slitted eyes. For years, Mittens and I have coexisted with mutual loathing but the minute she leaves the house, the cat is going to kill me; I'm sure of it.

She is, however, taking the car I bought her several years ago: a tiny, sporty, red thing with a convertible top. After squealing in delight and covering my face in kisses when I handed her the keys, we'd taken it for a quick spin around the block and ended up spending three hours cruising around downtown DC listening to offensively loud music.

She made me feel young. And despite the fact that I'm nearing seventy, she still makes me feel young; feel as though I can do anything. I'll take on the entire universe if she asks me to.

Her blond hair falls forward across her face as she adds another layer of clothing to the almost full suitcase. The late evening sunlight streams across her face and I still think she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. She's stuffing shoes with scrunched up balls of newspaper and I want to tell her she's going to get ink on her hands but I can't form the words. I don't want to break the silence, end up starting another argument.

I remember the very beginning; the first kiss she gave me, the first time she said 'I love you'. I remember how she used to snuggle in my lap while we watched reality shows and laughed at the contestants.

On the rare occasions when she cooked dinner it would always be burgers, and she would always burn them just the way I liked. She'd flick me with a wet dishcloth when we washed the dishes and I'd chase her around the kitchen table before she dissolved into hysterical giggles as I tickled her ribs.

She played music non stop and we would dance together through the house. I'd spin her across the floor and dip her backwards; I taught her all the old styles: tango, jitterbug, rumba. She moved with a graceful fluidity that made me breathlessly giddy.

For years we were happy. I gave her everything she wanted; I couldn't resist. I loved her more than any man could love anyone.

She's the last person I think of at night, and the first one I think of when I wake up. Every day she's been my number one priority. There's nothing I won't do for her. I'll die for her if I have to.

But bliss never lasts and I remember the first time I wasn't able to kiss her good night. After nine years of having her sleep at home, she had stayed at a friend's house for two days. Not having her under the same roof nearly killed me and as the years passed she started staying away longer. I never got used to it and I don't know how I'll cope when she leaves tonight.

She's finished packing the suitcase; moved on to the mess of cosmetics strewn across the dresser. I never understood why she felt the need to use so much makeup; why she doused herself with gallons of perfume. I asked her about it once and she said it made her feel good about herself. I have never and will never understand women.

As she got older she started dressing differently; tighter, shorter clothes. Now, claiming she needed a change, she has her hair cut into a neat bob and, even though the new style suits her, I still secretly regret no longer being able to play with the long golden waves.

We started fighting a few years ago. I don't remember what the first argument was about; I only remember the screams, the accusations. I remember her slamming the bedroom door and hearing her sobs. I'd wanted to comfort her, apologize for my hurtful insults, but my pride wouldn't let me.

And, as time passed, I stopped confiding in her, stopped telling her all about my day, stopped asking to hear about hers. We lived in peaceful ignorance. When the conversations stopped so did the arguments; the childish insults faded into grumbling acceptance. We tolerated each other, both going about our lives, both still filled with love but unable to show it.

I always knew today would come. Even from the very beginning I felt as though our relationship was a hanging dagger, the Sword of Damocles swinging slowly back and forth, ready one day to drop. I never could understand why I was so damn lucky to have her and I've always been afraid she would leave. People I love tend to do that. I know it sounds paranoid; I do understand that I can't expect her to stay with me forever but it doesn't stop me from thinking it.

So I've spent the past few days trying to talk her out of it. In a roundabout way of course. I realize I've never actually said 'don't leave me'. Never begged her to stay. I've just casually mentioned all the good things about remaining behind. We have a nice house and we have money. I won't complain about the mess she leaves in the bathroom. I've kept it all very light hearted; making jokes so she doesn't see how much I'm being torn apart inside.

Because I don't want to plead with her. I want to be strong. Manly. I cried last night. I've cried quite a few times over the past two decades but I've never let her see my tears. Men don't cry.

We spent two years on the outs with each other and it's only been the past few months she's opened up to me again, and our old banter has returned. She jokes that when she's gone my hair will stop turning grey. Teases that I can do what I want without having her around to bother me and I accept the gentle ribbing with smiles and laughter, burying my true feelings.

Maybe I should have fixed things earlier, tried to repair our relationship but I knew it wouldn't have made a difference. She needs to move on and so do I. If you love someone set them free and all those ridiculously stupid cliches.

Two nights ago we went out to dinner; just the two of us, and she told me how excited she was, how she hoped I could be excited as well. And if not, she at least wanted me to remember that she loved me.

Loves me. I know she loves me. She's leaving but she loves me. It makes no sense but I know she's right. She's spent her life telling me how she's always right - something she no doubt picked up from me.

I fold my arms across my chest as I watch; she's finished packing the assortment of perfumes on the dresser into a small carry case and she places it neatly beside the closed suitcase. I can't stand here any longer; can't watch as she packs away her part of the life we shared into a matching set of bags and a few cardboard boxes so I push myself off the doorframe, swivel on the ball of a foot and slink dejectedly down the stairs to the living room. I figure I may as well get drunk.

The amber scotch shines dully as it splashes into a glass. I don't bother to get an ice cube, don't care that the liquid will burn my throat; I slump onto the sofa and take a long painful gulp. She's leaving me.

I'm vaguely aware of thumps and bumps from above. She must be filling the boxes now. Bits and pieces of everything and nothing she's collected over the years. Things that she can't live without. I wonder idly if I can put myself in a box; wonder how she can live without me and I without her.

The living room darkens as night begins to fall. Shadows lengthen across the room; the noises in the house fade away with the warm alcohol in my belly. I lean back on the sofa and close my eyes, trying not to think about the inevitable: the minute she walks down the stairs and announces she's finished packing and she's leaving.

Drifting sleepily in an alcoholic haze, I hear footsteps behind me; a hand touches my shoulder and I open my eyes to look up at Donna.

"Hey," she says softly and I muster a smile.

"Hey yourself." I lean forward and place the empty glass on the coffee table as she walks around to sit beside me.

I drop my head into the curve of her neck when she slips an arm across my shoulders. "Why are you sitting here in the dark, Josh?"

I shrug, "Too lazy to turn on a light I guess."

"You'll be okay you know," Donna says softly and I shake my head.

"No."

She slides her free hand into mine, curling her fingers around it. "Sure you will. You knew this day was coming."

"So?" I feel like being stubborn now, despite the mellowness kindly provided by the scotch.

Donna turns her face to press her lips against my forehead. Her mouth is warm; I can feel her heart beat through her shirt and I sniff loudly, trying to hold back the tears. "Don't start crying now, you'll set me off," she chides lovingly. "We have to be strong about this."

"I don't want to be strong, Donna," I mutter. "I want to rewind time and do it all over again. Fix everything I did wrong."

"If you did anything wrong then I did too. And this isn't about blame at all. It's a natural part of life. This is what happens."

"Well it shouldn't," I grumble. "Can I just pause time? D'ya think that would be possible?"

"Not really, no," she smiles. "And it's time now. Come on."

I nod, press my face to her shoulder to wipe away the tears; she tuts affectionately so I tilt my head up to kiss her lips. The wonderfully familiar Donna taste goes to my head faster than the scotch. I press my body closer and she makes that little purring noise that goes straight to my pants. Damn it, not now.

When I break away she gives me another sad smile and repeats, "You'll be okay, Josh."

"Promise?" No matter how much my heart is breaking, I trust her, so if she says I'll be okay I know I can believe it.

She nods and squeezes my hand, "Promise. Are you ready?"

"I'll never be ready," I say morosely.

"You're going to have to deal with it. Be a good boy and help with the bags." She pulls me to my feet. "And there'll be no more drinking today."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Don't give me that," Donna says firmly. "I'm not going to have you pass out on the floor to avoid saying goodbye."

"Never thought of that," I chuckle and she rolls her eyes.

"If you get the boxes, I'll help with the bags and whatever you do, please don't start crying. This is hard enough as it is."

"I'll try," I shrug and give what I hope is a brave smile as we start climbing the stairs; when we reach the landing, Donna gives me a nudge.

"You go in first."

"Why?"

"She thinks you hate her," Donna whispers.

I give her a surprised look, "Why would she think that?"

"Because you've been moping around for days and because you're a jackass, Josh."

"Donna, I've been smiling, laughing, bouncing around like my pants are full of Mexican jumping beans. No one can accuse me of being mopey."

"You were Mr. Mope. Think about how you've been acting today. Slouching around the house giving her dirty looks."

"I haven't!" I insist quickly. "And even if I have, it's not my fault. She's leaving me."

"She's leaving me too," Donna whispers back.

"Yeah but she's my little girl."

"And she's not mine?" Donna raises her eyebrows in amusement.

Okay what happened to the sweet caring Donna from downstairs? I give her another dirty look. "Stop it, this isn't easy for me."

She grins and squeezes my hand again. "Sweetie, I love you and I feel your pain but would you quit whining already? Do it for her."

"But-" my retort is cut off as a voice floats out into the hallway.

"You do realize I can hear you two out there?"

"Umm..." I trail off as our daughter pokes her head out of her room.

"Dad, would you listen to Mom already. God, you think after twenty years of marriage you would have learned to shut up when she tells you to."

"Nicely put, Isobel," Donna grins triumphantly. "Josh, you're on box duty okay?" She pushes me into the room and I try to swallow the lump in my throat when I see the bags and boxes piled by the door.

"So you're all packed then?" My voice is oddly high and Isobel gives me a funny look.

"Seems that way," she mutters. "Mom, can you lock Mittens in your room? I don't want him to see me leaving."

Donna nods, heaves the cat into her arms, and disappears down the hallway. I stare at the toes of my shoes, not knowing what to say.

"Dad?"

I look up at my daughter. "Yeah?"

"It's not forever you know. I'll be back for Thanksgiving."

"I know," I choke, turning away. "I just..."

"You're going to make me cry," she says accusingly. "And I don't want to have puffy eyes on my first day at college."

I look back at her and offer a tiny smile. "That's what your mom said."

"Crying or puffy eyes?"

"The crying. But I guess the puffy eyes come with the crying."

"Your eyes look fine," Isobel says quietly.

"That's because I'm a man. No crying for me."

"You won't cry when I leave then?"

I stare into her eyes, dusky blue and bright with unshed tears, and shake my head, "Oh I'm gonna cry like a baby. And your mom is probably going to cry with me..." I trail off again, the lump in my throat threatening to suffocate me.

"That's okay then," she smiles. "Give me a hug, Dad, and tell me you love me and you're happy for me."

"I'm happy for you. It's the beginning of the rest of your life. And you're going to have so much fun at college. And then a husband, marriage, babies... but you're not having sex," I add quickly.

She starts laughing. "Then how do I get the babies?"

"There are fantastic medical advancements. Use them." I give her another smile and wiggle my fingers to beckon her over. "Come here, baby girl."

"Okay," she sniffs, wrapping her arms around my waist. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling the soft scent. Apples and soap. Roses. It's been the same smell her whole life.

I remember how she used to tangle her fingers in my hair, laughing into my neck when I held her in my arms. I was never an outdoorsman but she would still drag me to the park and we would go for long rambling walks along the Potomac. She convinced me to take her camping in Shenandoah and I was attacked by hordes of mosquitoes.

She learned to paint; splashed paper and canvas with bright colors. The first thing she ever made for me - a sheet of paper with tiny multicolored hand and foot prints randomly scattered across it - is framed and hanging with pride over the fireplace in the living room.

Every time she hurt herself, every time something bad happened, I would feel her pain doubly hard. She would weep in my arms and I would rub her back and tell how much I loved her, how much she meant to me. She felt things deeply; she wanted to heal the world. She had dreams and desires and she'd confide secrets to me, things she'd never told anyone.

When she was sick I'd bring her tea and toast in bed; drag the portable TV into the room and we'd watch cartoons and daytime talk shows. When I was sick, she drew pictures on my legs and feet with markers and sang songs she'd heard on the radio.

I remember late at night we would hide under a blanket and, with a flashlight casting spooky shadows across her face, she would tell me ghost stories. I spoke of Congress and politics; we debated the pros and cons of amendments. She always had a fresh perspective on currents issues; she would make me consider things I couldn't even see to begin with.

I took her to museums and memorials; taught her the history of the nation, the history of our ancestors. She read books, asked questions, remembered everything I told her. We would try to outdo each other with trivial politial minutiae.

I held her in my arms as a baby, taught her to walk as a toddler, kissed her bruises, taught her to throw a baseball, cried when she was unhappy, yelled when she was disobedient, cheered when she succeeded, gave sympathy and cookies when she failed.

I had eighteen wonderful years. And I'll get more, even if I don't see her every day.

"I'll be back for Thanksgiving," she says softly.

"And Christmas, New Years, um... there's something that happens the end of January that you have to come home for, right?"

Isobel starts giggling against my neck. "State of the Union."

"Yeah!"

"I can't come home every month, Dad. And definitely not for that. I'm going to college on the other side of the country."

"That's why they invented airplanes."

"Daaaaad," she groans.

"Okay, okay."

She pulls back and looks up at me. "You're going to be okay you know. I say so and Mom says so and you know us girls are always right."

"I know." I pull her against me again and squeeze her so tightly she starts slapping my back.

"Air, Dad, need air," Isobel gasps, and I release my death grip. "Now I really need you to take boxes to the car so I can go." She pulls away, slings a garment bag over her shoulder and starts dragging a suitcase down the hall.

"I love you, Isobel," I call after her.

"I love you more, Dad," she yells back. "But get your ass in gear."

As I hear the wheels of her suitcase thump down the stairs, I tell myself it's the house she's leaving and not me.

It hurts now but the two women I love more than anything in the world - my wife and my daughter - will help me get through this.

They'll look after me.

They always have.