He stared at the shelves of lighting. “The house feels empty now.”
“You told me to take my belongings,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You meant it,” I replied. “You just didn’t understand what it meant.”
His shoulders sagged.
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
“I don’t hate you,” I answered honestly. “I just don’t care what happens in your house anymore.”
I walked away and felt surprisingly calm.
Two years passed.
One afternoon I accidentally drove down Ridgewood Avenue and saw the house again. The lawn looked neglected and the windows showed cheap furniture inside.
Later that day a text appeared from an unknown number.
“Rebecca, it’s Scott. I’m selling the house.”
I read the message quietly.
“I thought you should know,” he added. “It feels like the last piece of us.”
I typed a simple reply.
“That house was never us. It was yours. I just made it beautiful.”
He sent one final message.
“I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology,” I wrote. “But I do not want contact anymore. I wish you well.”
Then I blocked the number.
Weeks later a new client named Laura Bennett contacted my studio about renovating a property she had just purchased.
The address made me pause.
Ridgewood Avenue.