She consumed every memory of my youth. The acceptance letters, the first kiss, the way her eyes went hazy with wine at our wedding... I thought I knew every part of her.
I was wrong.
She glared at me, impatient for my apology—like a dog eager to please its master, desperate to comfort the man behind her.
I stared her down.
"You want an apology?" I scoffed. "In your dreams."
I spun on my heel, marched to my apartment door, and punched in the code.
The lock beeped. I stepped inside.
Immediately, something felt wrong.
The floor gleamed. The trash can was empty. The throw blanket on the sofa was folded with military precision, and fresh laundry scent drifted from the balcony.
Too clean.
Claire was not a domestic woman. She never mopped unless forced. Only took out the trash when it overflowed. Preached about hand-washing delicates but let them pile up until she ran out of clothes.
These trivialities had been constant friction in our marriage. We fought about it endlessly.
I remembered her defense vividly: "I'm carrying the weight of the entire Vance family, and I respected your wish not to have children. I never force you to do anything. What more do you want?"
So I'd compromised.