Michael told me that’s when the alcohol started to wear off.
My door was ajar.
Daniel pushed it open.
He turned on the light.
The bed was made.
Perfectly made, as I always left it.
But empty.
The closet was open.
Empty of my clothes.
Only the hangers remained.
The nightstand without my books, my glasses, my rosary.
As if I had never existed in that room.
“What the hell?” Emily muttered behind him.
Daniel ran to the bathroom.
My toothbrush was gone.
My face cream.
My comb.
My cheap rose-scented perfume.
All gone.
He went back to the room.
And that’s when he saw it.
On his pillow, a folded letter.
He grabbed it with trembling hands.
He unfolded it.
Emily read over his shoulder.
Michael told me his father’s face changed as he read.
From confusion.
To disbelief.
From disbelief.
To horror.
“What does it say?” Emily asked. “Did she leave? Did your mom leave?”
