Earlier that day, Harrison had texted three times, insisting I wait for him to handle the seasonal wardrobe switch.
I sat on the edge of the bed, massaging medicated oil into my aching wrist—an old injury, a souvenir from saving Vera when she fell from a tree years ago. Every shift in weather brought a dull throb deep in the bone.
Harrison never forgot. He treated me like glass, taking on every household chore so I'd never strain my hand. To the outside world, he was a saint. As if he'd stripped away all his jagged edges just to be the perfect husband.
But he'd been working late for two weeks straight. I couldn't bear the thought of him coming home exhausted only to start cleaning, so I decided to surprise him. Opened the wardrobe to swap the seasonal clothes myself.
I didn't expect to find the yearbook buried beneath the winter coats.
Curiosity won. I flipped it open.
Vera's entry was brief, polite: "Harrison, I wish you a lifetime of happiness and a house full of grandkids."
The pages that followed were filled with his handwriting. A countdown of despair.
Seven years of torment. Six years of waiting. Five years of longing...