As I exit the hospital into the fading afternoon light, my phone buzzes with my mother’s photo lighting up the screen. Taking a deep breath, I answer.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Where are you, baby girl? You were supposed to be home an hour ago.” Her voice carries a blend of worry and command that’s intensified since she arrived four days ago.
“Just got off shift.” I slide into my car. “I’m going to stop by the house for a bit.”
“Meesha...” Her voice softens with concern. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Am I ready to face the embodiment of everything I’ve lost? Probably not. But I need to see it.
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t like you being alone right now.”
“I’ll text when I get there, okay?”
“You betta, baby girl.”
The drive to the lakefront property stretches through familiar streets, my mind caught between memory and regret with each turn of the wheel. When I finally pull up to the house—our house—the setting sun stretches long shadows across its freshly sided exterior. Connor had insisted on the warm cedar, blue, saying it reminded him of a summer sky reflected in the lake.
I park beside the construction dumpster and sit for a moment, gathering courage to enter what feels simultaneously like adream and a nightmare. The May breeze rustles the trees surrounding the property as I finally step out.
My fingers tremble as I punch the numbers into the keypad. The door swings open to reveal what should have been our entryway—currently just bare drywall and subfloor, waiting for the finishing touches we’d planned to select together.
I move through the space slowly, trailing my fingers along unfinished walls. The living room, with its wall of windows faced the lake and the dining area we’d imagined hosting Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas celebrations with our future children.
In the kitchen, yellow sticky notes still mark where each appliance will go. Connor’s neat handwriting labels each space—refrigerator, double oven, coffee station.
We’d spent hours debating the merits of a kitchen island versus a peninsula, finally compromising on a design that incorporated elements of both.
“You’ll need lots of counter space for your baking experiments,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we reviewed the blueprints. “And I need room for my morning coffee ritual.”
The memory brings a fresh wave of pain. I sink to the floor, back against the wall where our refrigerator should stand.
Upstairs, I hesitate outside what would have been our bedroom. The door is partially closed, though I know I left it open during my last visit weeks ago. Taking a deep breath, I push it open.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room has been partially finished. The walls are painted a soft yellow we selected together. Plush carpet covers the floor instead of the bare subfloor. And there, centered beneath the window—our bed.
Not just any bed, but the king-sized four-poster we’d spotted in an antique shop in Montreal last winter. Connor had it shipped and refinished as a surprise.
A strangled sound escapes my throat as I cross to it, running my fingers over the smooth wood. This wasn’t supposed to be here yet. We’d planned to move in furniture after the honeymoon.
On the nightstand sits a framed photo of us from our trip to Quebec City, snow dusting our hats as we smile into the camera, cheeks flushed with cold and happiness.
The dam finally breaks. I collapse onto the bed, clutching the picture to my chest as sobs rack my body. Ten years of love. A lifetime of plans. All jeopardized by my doubts.
The possibility that Connor might never forgive me, that this beautiful house might remain forever empty of the family we planned to build, engulfs me with grief so consuming my lungs seem to forget their purpose.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room, to the man who isn’t there to hear it. “I’m so sorry.”
The subtle shift in the air makes me pause. A presence. I sense him before I hear him.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I turn, and there he stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light.
“Connor.”
After five days of silence and imagining this moment, he’s here, watching me with those dark eyes that have always seen straight through to my soul.
