In the days that followed, our home felt hollow in a way I couldn’t name. The routines continued—meals cooked, lunches packed, laundry folded—but the warmth was gone. Conversations became functional. Necessary. Brief. I told myself it was temporary, that she’d get over it, unaware that what I’d dismissed as a careless comment had cut far deeper.
Two weeks later, a box arrived.
It was large. Heavy. Her name was printed clearly across the label.
She was out running errands. I hesitated, then carried it inside. The weight surprised me—not just physically, but in a way I couldn’t explain. When I opened it, my chest tightened.
Inside were framed certificates, academic awards, and carefully preserved notebooks. Letters tied with ribbon. Old projects labeled in her handwriting. Proof of a life that existed long before mine ever intersected with hers.
On top was a handwritten note.
As I read it, the room seemed to close in around me.
