I sit on the edge of my -our- bed and slide my hands along the silken blankets you choose on our honeymoon. They came from your favourite shop, they’re your favourite colour, and they still smell of your favourite perfume. I guess that’s why I kept them.
I reach to the drawer of the bedside desk and take out the photo I still keep. Our wedding photo. You were so happy, so young. I bet you’ve hardly changed, in the years we’ve been apart. Oh, but dear, I’ve changed. You leaving has aged me. I think I must be years older now, at least in my head. And I never smile like I did that day, not now, not without you.
I sigh as I hear the front door bell, wipe the glass of the picture frame free of tears, dry my eyes, compose myself and leave your memories for another day. I’ve got to go, love, your daughter’s home, and she must never know.