But I wasn’t naive. Evelyn’s social media painted a different picture. There he was, standing just out of frame as she smiled like a flower in photos of their dates. They visited luxury boutiques, food spots and maternity clinics.
Each post was a dagger, yet my heart felt cold, detached. This wasn’t new pain—it was a persistent ache, dulled by the weight of my resolve.
***
Night after night, I packed. I sorted through the remnants of my life with Harry—the gifts, the love letters, the photographs. Every item carried the weight of a memory, each one suffocating me like a noose tightening around my neck.
By dawn, I had collected everything into a pile in the backyard. Lighting a match, I watched the flames consume it all. The wedding photos crumbled into ash. The letters curled and blackened, their words vanishing into smoke.
Even my own belongings, clothes and personal treasures—anything that connected me to this house—were sold or given away. I left no trace of myself behind.
Tomorrow would mark seven years since our wedding day. But instead of celebrating, I would leave this chapter of my life behind. Forever.
I spent that final night at my desk, editing two videos.