Then he dragged me and our four-year-old son onto the shoulder of the highway. I thought he had lost his mind—until I realized what was missing from the car.

It was supposed to be a simple weekend getaway. Just the three of us—me, my husband Brian, and our four-year-old son Caleb. We packed snacks, downloaded playlists, and left early to avoid Phoenix traffic.

But exactly ten minutes into the drive, everything changed.

Brian’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as we merged onto I-17. Without a word, he swerved onto the shoulder, tires squealing slightly, like gravel crunching under them.

“Brian? What are you doing…?”
“Get out. Now.”
“What?”
“I said get out!” he yelled, already unbuckling Caleb from his car seat. He threw open the back door and pulled our son out so roughly that Caleb began to whimper, “Daddy, I’m scared!”

I stood frozen in disbelief as he leaned over me, unbuckled my seatbelt, and shoved my door open.

“Brian! What the hell is going on?!”
But he didn’t answer. He just pushed us onto the dusty shoulder like we were trash. Before I could stand up or scream, he jumped back into the car, slammed the door, and hit the gas.

The SUV sped off and vanished into the morning traffic.

I was too stunned to speak. Caleb clung to me and cried.
A semi-truck roared past, the wind kicking up dust and gravel. We sat on the side of the highway with no phone, no bags, nothing. Just the clothes on our backs.

And then it hit me.

The back of the SUV, which I had packed myself, was filled with all our belongings.
All of Caleb’s things.
But none of mine.

My clothes were gone. My toiletries, my laptop, even my purse—everything I had left by the front door while helping Caleb get dressed. Brian had loaded the car.

He had planned this.

I looked down the highway, trembling, holding my son, as the Arizona sun beat down harder.

My husband hadn’t lost his mind.
He had gotten rid of us.