Inside were Oliver’s notebooks—old, worn, filled with messy handwriting that I recognized from the scraps he used to leave around the kitchen table. His childhood baseball glove. A little teddy bear I’d given him our first Christmas, the one he’d claimed was ridiculous and then kept on his side of the bed anyway.
My throat tightened.
Daniel looked like he might cry, but he didn’t. Harrington men didn’t cry. They apologized quietly and hoped that counted as bravery.
“I know,” I said softly. “Apologies don’t make you brave.”
Daniel flinched.
He nodded once, shame deepening.
Lydia’s phone remained pointed at me the whole time.
As I carried the last box to the car, I heard Lydia laugh with Margaret—light, sharp—and Edward popped a bottle of champagne like they were celebrating a business deal.
Celebrating.
I didn’t cry.
My grief was waiting—patient.
It always was.
I got into my Toyota, closed the door, and looked at the house one last time through the windshield.
Margaret stood with her arms folded, chin lifted.
Lydia panned her camera across the driveway, probably narrating something cruel for strangers.
Edward raised his champagne glass.
Daniel stood alone on the porch, looking like he wanted to run but didn’t know where.
I started the engine.
As I drove away, Lydia’s laughter faded.
