I was supposed to be halfway across the country by evening.
Instead, my flight was cancelled.
Weather, mechanical issues, vague airline excuses—no one could give a straight answer. I was irritated at first, then strangely relieved. Ethan and I had barely seen each other lately, and the idea of surprising my husband with a quiet night at home felt almost sweet.
So I took a cab back.
I unlocked the apartment door expecting silence.
Instead, a woman stood in my hallway wearing my robe.
Her hair was damp. She held one of our mugs in both hands. Not just any mug—the blue ceramic one I bought on our first anniversary, the one Ethan always said was “too sentimental” to use.
She smiled at me politely.
“Oh,” she said. “You must be the realtor, right? My husband said you’d come to evaluate our apartment.”
For one second, everything inside me dropped.
But my face didn’t move.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “That’s me.”
She stepped aside easily, completely unsuspecting. “Great. He’s in the shower. Feel free to look around.” Together.
The word settled in my chest like ice.
