Mushroom risotto. That was Patricia’s favorite. Mine was steak. He knew that. Or maybe he had forgotten—because he never really paid attention.
Because I was never the one he saw. Because I was just… convenient.
Five more days. And I would never have to look at this man again.
I lit the candle in silence.
It was a soft white flame, steady and still, unlike my trembling fingers as I placed it beside the tiny pair of socks we had bought just a month ago. Blue and cotton-soft. Denver had picked them out, said they reminded him of the sky. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.
I knelt in front of the little altar I had made for our baby and closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice quaking. “I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve seen them for what they are. I’m sorry you never got a chance to meet this world... but maybe that’s a blessing too.”
I stayed like that for minutes—or maybe hours—just letting the grief pass through me. When I finally stood, I knew what I had to do next.
It was time to move on.
I started with the nursery.