For the next two weeks, I concentrated on rebuilding my routine.
I began walking every morning. I visited my sister, Helen, who lived across town. I rearranged the living room furniture because I couldn’t bear to sit in the same place where Robert had announced his unhappiness.
I even planted new flowers along the garden path.
It wasn’t a dramatic transformation.
Some mornings, I still woke up reaching for the empty space beside me.
Sometimes I found myself preparing two cups of coffee before remembering that Robert wasn’t there.
But little by little, the house began to feel like mine again.
Then, exactly twenty-one days after Susan sent me that first photograph, someone started pounding on my front door at two o’clock in the morning.
I woke with a start.
The knocking came again.
Harder.
“Margaret! Please! Open the door!”
I recognized the voice immediately.
Susan.
I pulled on my dressing gown and hurried downstairs.
