My stomach turned.
I remembered that night with unbearable physical precision: the suitcase open on our bed, Randall folding shirts too neatly, the smell of the lavender detergent I used, my own voice asking the same question in different forms because I thought eventually one version might reach him.
Where are you going?
What are you doing?
Is this a joke?
After thirty-five years?
Now you’re leaving me?
Jonah set the camera down.
“Do you want—”
“Play it.”
The image appeared.
Darkness at first.
Then the camera adjusted.
Randall was sitting in his car.
Our house was visible behind him.
My house now.
The porch light was on.
The upstairs bedroom window glowed.
I stared at that square of yellow.
I had been behind it.
Probably sitting on the edge of our bed.
Probably crying so quietly because some foolish part of me still believed he might come back if I did not make leaving too unpleasant.
