Like I was the problem.
I moved through the house like a ghost. Folding sweaters. Stuffing socks into a suitcase. My hands were steady, but my chest felt like it had been caved in.
Every drawer I opened felt like a funeral.
Every item I touched felt like a lie I’d been living inside.
When I rolled the suitcase to the front door, I paused.
Mark still didn’t stop me.
Claire stood behind him with her arms crossed, wearing that fake-little-girl face like a mask.
The door shut.
And the night air hit me so hard it stole my breath.
I stood on the porch in my slippers, suitcase beside me, staring at the windows of the home I’d built.
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