She stepped into the house without waiting for permission.
Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor while she looked around the living room with the critical curiosity of someone evaluating a property she might soon claim as her own.
“This place really needs updating,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to Richard about that.”
Richard.
My husband.
Or at least the man who had still been my husband less than an hour earlier.
The same man I had helped support through medical school by working two jobs, the same man who moved into this house five years ago after we spent years saving for it together.
I closed the door quietly behind her and hung the coat on the hallway rack.
For a moment I simply watched her walk deeper into the house as though she had visited dozens of times before.
Perhaps she had.
