A thin mist clung to the windows as I stood in the kitchen, motionless. The coffee maker gave its final beep, but I didn’t move. I wasn’t ready—not for warmth, not for focus, not for the echo of last night.
By the door, a pair of freshly polished shoes sat untouched since yesterday, now looking oddly out of place. They were quiet reminders of a night that began in celebration but ended in silence. No one called my name after I slipped away. Only the hum of the radiator and the distant bark of a neighbor’s dog kept me company. I had left before the first dance was over, and no one noticed.
By now, he would have opened the email—the one I typed with steady hands, though my heart felt heavier than I could explain. It wasn’t written in anger, nor intended to hurt. It came from somewhere quieter, but firmer. My laptop still glowed on the table, the cursor blinking beside a single sentence. Waiting, perhaps, for softer words. But none came.
His laughter from last night still echoed in my mind—carefully polished, yet sharp. “She’s used to leftovers. She’ll manage.” I had stayed silent in that moment. But under the shimmer of wedding lights, something shifted inside me. He didn’t know the full story—the sacrifices made quietly, the parts of myself I’d set aside so he could thrive. The woman he thought he knew—the endlessly accommodating mother—didn’t follow me home that night. Someone else did.
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