Chapter 6
Cream walls.
A soft ivory rug.
Hand-painted stars over the crib.
A chair by the window where I had imagined sitting during sleepless nights while Vincent brought me coffee.
That image hurt more than the room itself.
"What about the rest of the house?" the woman asked.
"Nothing."
The movers arrived two hours later.
Margaret helped me pack.
I took the clothes I had purchased before my marriage and the things I genuinely loved.
Photographs of my parents.
A wooden recipe box that had belonged to my grandmother.
Books filled with my notes.
Old sweaters.
A chipped ceramic bowl I had made in college.
Everything connected to Lily.
Everything that felt like me.
Everything else stayed.
The handbags Vincent had given me remained lined up in the dressing room.
Chanel.
Hermès.
Dior.
Boxes I once opened with shaking hands because I thought their cost measured his devotion.
The jewelry stayed in the safe.
Emerald earrings from our second anniversary.
A diamond necklace from Christmas.
A sapphire ring he gave me after canceling a vacation because Sophia had called about a family problem.
I had worn that ring for years.
I finally understood why.
It was easier to admire gemstones than ask why my husband kept apologizing with them.
The dresses remained hanging exactly where they were.
Silk.
Cashmere.
Couture pieces selected by stylists whose names I barely remembered.
Margaret stood in the closet doorway.
"You're leaving all of it?"
"Yes."
"Some of those things are yours."
I ran my fingers over the sleeve of a black dress.
Legally, perhaps she was right.
Emotionally, I couldn't take them.
"They never felt like mine."
Margaret looked away.
She understood.
By early afternoon, the nursery was nearly empty.
The sight stopped me.
The bare patch where Lily's crib had been looked almost accusing.
Thirteen days earlier, Vincent had kissed my forehead and promised he would return before our daughter arrived.
Now there was no crib waiting for him.
No baby clothes.
No diapers stacked in drawers.
No wife sitting beside the window trying to forgive him.
Margaret came behind me.
"Mrs. Moretti—"
"Emily."
She gave a sad smile.
"Emily."
I turned.
She held Lily's stuffed rabbit.
"You forgot this."
I took it.
"Thank you."
Then I reached into my handbag and removed an envelope.
Margaret frowned.
"What is that?"
"For you."
She opened it, saw the check, and immediately tried to hand it back.