I stood in the doorway with my keys in my hand, ready to leave before she woke and felt crowded.
Then I noticed the gray suitcase in the corner of her bedroom.
The same one she had packed in April.
It was still there.
Not hidden.
Not unpacked either.
A silent monument to the night I let her leave.
When she woke up, she found me in the kitchen washing the mug I had used.
“You always rinse it twice,” she said.
I turned around.
“So did you.”
She looked at me for a long second.
Then she said, “I was angry at you for remembering that.”
“I understand.”
“And I was angrier when I realized I was glad you did.”
I said nothing, because some doors should not be forced open simply because they have finally cracked.
The months that followed were not easy.
There were good test results and difficult mornings.
There were appointments where she squeezed my hand under the table and pretended she had not.
There were days when she told me to go home, and I went.
There were days when she asked me to stay, and I stayed in the chair by the window with a blanket over my knees, listening to her breathing as if I had finally understood what vigilance meant.
We talked about April.
Not all at once.
Piece by piece.
I apologized more than once, but I stopped expecting an apology to work like a receipt.
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