“Mum, remember the girls were really excited about you taking care of the dogs. Don’t let us down.”
I read it three times.
It didn’t say we love you.
It didn’t say thank you.
It didn’t say are you okay.
It said: don’t let us down.
I took a deep breath, opened my laptop, and wrote a note. Not an apology—a truth.
I left it on the dining table next to the reservation for the dog boarding facility and a single key to my house.
Then I turned off all the lights, sat in the darkness, and waited for dawn like someone waiting for the first heartbeat of a new life.
Part 3
The taxi arrived at 3:38 a.m.
Valencia slept under warm humidity, and I left with my suitcase without making noise—even though I was no longer obligated to protect anyone’s sleep.
Before closing the door, I looked one last time at the hallway, at the console table where for years I had left other people’s backpacks, other people’s letters, other people’s problems.
