The couch was gone. The small kitchen table where she used to sip tea each evening had disappeared. Her photos, the old slippers by the door, even the crocheted decorations she loved so much were missing.
The closets were nearly bare, only a few hangers swaying slightly in the quiet space. My first thought was that she had moved in with my aunt. Maybe she needed time away from me after what I’d said.
I closed the door, slid the key back under the mat, and told myself she deserved that space. A week later, my phone rang. Her name lit up the screen, and my chest tightened.
Not with fear—but with expectation. I assumed she was finally ready to talk… maybe even apologize.
