I didn’t know how long I sat there.
Eventually, the tears slowed, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.
My birthday was two days away.
I had imagined celebrating it with Mark, perhaps going out for dinner, perhaps receiving a small gift and a kiss that would remind me why I had stayed for so long.
Instead, I felt as though the life I had built was lying in pieces around me.
I started the car and drove home.
By the time I reached the house, my grief had hardened into anger.
I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Mark’s clothes hanging in the closet or his shoes beside the door. Every familiar object reminded me of the future I believed we shared.
I unlocked the front door and walked inside.
The house was quiet.
I stood in the living room for several seconds, looking at the couch where we had watched movies, the photographs on the shelves, and the small table where we sorted our bills together.
