DON’T BE A KILLJOY, HE’S ALREADY GONE ANYWAY, Miranda texted. The kids are loving the infinity pool! Don’t ruin our vibe with your depressing calls.
I stood at the edge of the open grave, the cold New England rain soaking through the shoulders of my suit. I read the words twice. For years, I had convinced myself that her “loyalty,” however flawed, was the anchor of my soul. I believed that providing for her was my duty as a husband. But as I stared down into the dark earth, watching the rain pool on the brass handles of the coffin, I realized the anchor was actually a noose. And I was finally suffocating.
I didn’t feel the familiar sting of tears. I didn’t feel grief. Instead, a sudden, terrifying, and absolute clarity washed over me. A cold calculus settled behind my ribs.
I turned my back on the grave and walked to my car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I opened my phone and systematically deleted every photo of Miranda, every text thread, every shared calendar event. I erased her digital footprint from my life in sixty seconds. Then, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in months.
“Marcus,” I said when my old friend answered. He was a high-stakes real estate developer who bought up oversized suburban lots to build luxury condo complexes.
“David, hey man. I’m so sorry about Henry. I meant to be at the service, but—”
“That offer you made for the lot last year,” I interrupted, my voice as steady and cold as a surgeon’s blade. “Is it still on the table for cash? And can you bring a demolition crew by Monday?”
Marcus paused, the rustle of blueprints stopping in the background. “David, that’s your family home. It’s a custom build. Where is Miranda?”
I looked down at my left hand. The gold band felt heavy, like a shackle. I rolled down the window, pulled the ring off my finger, and let it drop. It hit the wet asphalt and rolled directly into the iron grate of the storm drain with a satisfying, metallic plink.
“She’s in Bali,” I replied, staring at the dark grate. “And she doesn’t live here anymore.”
