“You’ve had enough.”
“Enough of what?”
She looked at me coldly.
“My father.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“I loved your father.”
“You knew he was vulnerable.”
Michael appeared behind her.
“Just pack your things.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Can I at least take the photograph from the mantel?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“It is our wedding photograph.”
“Everything here belonged to my father.”
“And I was his wife.”
She stepped closer.
“Not anymore.”
That was when my suitcase hit the floor.
I didn’t fight them.
I didn’t scream.
I was too tired.
Too heartbroken.
I walked out.
I took nothing except what I was wearing.
They wouldn’t even let me take the photograph.
My sister had left me an old trailer on a small piece of land beside a county road.
It wasn’t much.
A tiny kitchen.
A narrow bedroom.
A porch that leaned slightly to one side.
But it was mine.
For the first few days, I barely left the bed.
I kept expecting Thomas to call.
Every time a car passed, I looked toward the window.
Every morning, I woke up for half a second believing he was beside me.
