A photo from the week of my divorce. I looked tired in it, hollowed out, staring at nothing. But I was sitting at our table.
He'd kept that too.
I remembered him pulling out his old phone.
A photo from the day after my mother's funeral, the half-sandwich visible on the table between us, my hands wrapped around a coffee cup like it was the only solid thing in the room.
Charles had been quietly documenting eleven years of my life, in moments nobody else had thought worth noticing.
***
Beneath the photos was the notebook. The same one. The one he'd written in every single day after lunch for over a decade.
I opened it with hands that weren't quite steady.
Beneath the photos was the notebook.
The entries were short. Dated. Some just a sentence.
Charlotte smiled today. First time this week.
Promotion day. She pretended it wasn't a big deal. It was.
