ur home. The house I had bought for us, the one we we

ips. Maybe the text was a mistake, a misunderstanding. Maybe Mark had stolen her phone. My mind gr

her voice a li

can exp

aid, my voice flat. "I just want to know

t wasn't empty. I could hear a man's voice

don't need this stress," the voice sa

in a car accident. Now she was the one who nee

my knuckles white on

iam," she whispered,

ground, the casual endearment, her immediate obedience. It wasn't a crisis, i

er friends had decorated it yesterday. A large, white banner with "Just Married" was draped over the garage. Red

n the floor, leading a path to the master bedroom. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice

ick to my stomach. I walked through the room, the balloons bumping against me w

ion. Twenty-five, standing on the plot of land that would become this house, my arms wrapped around

m our engagement shoot. We looked so happy, so certain. Her head wa

den, violent motion, I tore the photograph in half, the sound of ripping paper loud in the silent hous

until my fingers were raw and the floor around me was littered with the confetti of our dead relati

se was no longer a home, it was a tomb filled with memories o

lly to get her things. And when she did, I would be here. Not to beg, not to fight, but to get the final closure I deserved before I walked away