As he prepared to leave, he accepted that his search had come to an end. Standing near the front door, he quickly devoured a sandwich while I called for the girls to come and say their goodbyes. They leaned against the banister, watching him closely.
“The ospreys are back,” he remarked, and I nodded in acknowledgement. “Yes, we’ve been seeing them,” I replied. After he walked to the borrowed Jeep, the girls and I climbed into our family Toyota to grab Chinese takeout from one of the few restaurants still open on the island. I was determined to leave before James, wanting to shield my daughters from the sight of their father’s departure over the hill, which I feared would leave a lasting image in their minds. Little did I realize, it was not the image of him departing that would linger, but the memory of him pacing in his mask, delivering the heartbreaking news.
Later, as the three of us gathered around the kitchen table to watch our favorite show, Gilmore Girls, a sense of normalcy enveloped us. We had memorized every episode, finding comfort in the familiar dialogues. Suddenly, a text from James interrupted the moment: “That was a great visit!” Reading his message left me bewildered, as he seemed to have recast our painful encounters into a lighthearted narrative. I chose not to respond.
Weeks later, I received an email from him with an attachment—a scanned copy of our prenup, located by his lawyer in a storage facility. As I opened the document and reached the last page, I was struck by the sight of my name. My signature, written in blue ink and neat script just five days before our wedding, belied a sense of innocence and hopefulness.
With evenings stretching long after the sun dipped below the horizon, and after cleaning up dinner, I found myself longing to fill the void of time. Bedtime before 10 p.m. only made the nights feel even longer. This led me back to the comforts of jigsaw puzzles, sitting at the card table in the living room with a cup of tea, losing myself in putting pieces together until I was finally able to call it a night. In those moments of solitude, I often felt the presence of several of my deceased loved ones, whom my stepmother, Susan, referred to as my “deads.” My grandmother, my father, and my childhood friend Lynn seemed to join me as I navigated another night. Their presence, while inexplicable, offered a comforting sensation, as if they were watching over me, protecting me through the darkness.
This poignant narrative underscores the resilience of the human spirit in the face of emotional turbulence, showcasing how memories and loved ones—both present and past—can provide solace during difficult times.