It was a cold October morning in Vancouver, the kind that tricks you into believing everything is calm and ordinary. The streets were lined with gold and red leaves, the air sharp with cedar and rain. I had just dropped my wife, Margaret, at the airport.
She was leaving for what she called a “wellness retreat” in Kelowna. Five days of yoga, spas, and relaxation. At least, that was the story.
She barely looked at me when she got out of the car.
“Don’t forget to water my orchids,” she said, as if assigning a task, not saying goodbye.
I leaned in for a kiss. She turned her cheek.
I told myself it meant nothing.
I watched her walk into the terminal, suitcase rolling behind her, posture perfect, never once turning back.
Then I heard a small voice.
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