The following day, Vincent was gone before I woke up. I don’t know if he was afraid I would be jealous of Zoe’s circle of friends.
But a surprise was waiting on the dining table—a plate of slightly burnt toast, a fried egg and a glass of milk—a rare gesture from someone who had never made breakfast.
Beside the plate was a sticky note: “For my wife—enjoy.”
My phone buzzed with a message from him,
Vincent: [Honey, I’ve put the wedding dress in the study. Try it on and send me a photo—I know you’ll look the most beautiful.]
I finished the toast (a bit charred but edible) and headed to a stationery store, where I bought a countdown calendar. Back home, I tore off the first page. There were six days left.
Then I got to work packing.
I started in the den, clearing away framed photos, books we’d shared and all the papers and trinkets we’d accumulated together. As I placed the last item in a box, something fell out—a diary.
Flipping through it, I saw pages filled with our happy memories—dates, anniversaries and little notes about the silly things we’d done.
The paper had yellowed slightly, but the memories were still vivid. I hesitated, then decided to leave it behind.