But I was beginning to understand that missing the past didn’t mean I wanted my old life back.
Last Friday, Tucker came to collect the remainder of his belongings.
I had packed everything neatly into boxes.
His books.
Some clothes.
Personal documents.
A few objects he’d left in the garage.
And on top of the final box, I placed the blue presentation folder.
The same folder I’d rushed across town to deliver on the morning my marriage began falling apart.
Tucker noticed it immediately.
He stood there looking at it for several seconds.
Then he picked it up.
Neither of us said anything.
He carried the boxes to his car.
When he returned to the doorway, he looked as though he wanted to speak.
But there was nothing left that I needed him to explain.
I quietly closed the door.
For seven years, I had believed that loving someone meant standing beside them through everything.
