Now, those smiles mocked me. The happiness in those frames felt staged, hollow. I couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. They were monuments to my naivety.
In truth, Isaac hadn’t come home in more than two weeks.
To cope, I threw myself into my work. Designing ceremonial gowns for the upcoming pack event gave me purpose and distraction during daylight hours. But when evening fell, I resumed sorting through what remained of our life, silently grieving as I filled box after box, often crying until my emotions dulled into numbness.
Eventually, I stripped the home of every trace of warmth. I swapped out the furnishings I’d once selected with such care for sterile, modern replacements—monochrome, clean lines, cold. The house now looked like it did the first day I stepped inside, before it had become mine. Or rather, before I fooled myself into believing it was.
The night before I was set to leave, I hovered over my phone, tempted to call Isaac just once more. I didn’t know if I was seeking closure or simply desperate for him to ask me to stay.
I dialed.
Each time, he declined.