Now, it felt like an echo.
I stood in the living room, staring at the armchair where he used to sit every evening. A book rested on the arm, still marked halfway through. He had always read slowly, savoring every page. I had teased him about it once—told him he’d still be on the same book when we turned eighty.
We never got that far.
The note was still on the table.
I had read it so many times the paper had begun to soften at the folds. The words no longer shocked me the way they had in the bathroom at the funeral—but they hadn’t lost their weight.
“Even though we could never be together the way we deserved, my kids and I will love you forever.”
At first, it had shattered everything.
Now, it just sat there—like a question that refused to disappear.
