I want a separation.
I think you should stay somewhere else tonight.
Please do not lie to me. Not today. Not this week.
Ten years.
Our anniversary was Saturday.
I had bought him a watch and had his name engraved on the back.
Leo wandered in carrying his stuffed rabbit and climbed into my lap without saying anything.
That was what finally broke me.
More than the locked room.
More than the mysterious woman in the green dress.
He knew something was wrong and was trying to repair it with a stuffed rabbit.
Then my phone vibrated against my leg.
For a moment, I almost ignored it.
When I finally looked, my hand turned cold.
Mark had sent me a photograph.
It showed the guest bedroom from the doorway.
Half of one wall was covered in unfinished brushstrokes—soft blues, warm browns, and the beginnings of a woman’s face.
A face with kind eyes I would have recognized anywhere.
My mother’s eyes.
Beneath the photo were four lines.
“I took this yesterday.”
“I wasn’t ready to show you yet.”
“Please go upstairs.”
“I love you.”
I opened the picture again.
The blue paint.
The silver stars.
The smudge on Leo’s thumb.
The locked guest room.
Nora’s paint-stained hands.
Every clue I had spent the past hour arranging into proof of betrayal suddenly reorganized itself into something entirely different.
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
“Oh, God.”
The words barely escaped.
I had been wrong.
Not slightly wrong.
Completely wrong.
I looked toward Leo.
He was curled on the couch with his stuffed rabbit, watching me with anxious eyes.
“Mommy?”
I swallowed the pressure in my throat.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I said quietly. “We’re going back to the store.”
He tilted his head.
“To see the paint lady?”
I nodded.
“Yes. I think… I owe her an apology.”
Twenty minutes later, I found Nora in the supermarket parking lot, folding a paint-stained cloth into the trunk of a small blue car.
My legs felt borrowed as I approached her.
“I’m so sorry,” I said before she had fully turned around. “I said terrible things. I thought.”
Nora gave me a calm, gentle smile.
“Mark found me four months ago,” she said. “He brought me a shoebox of your mother’s photographs. He asked if I could put her on a wall so you’d see her every night.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Leo pressed quietly against my leg.
“The stars,” Nora said, crouching to his height.
She took a slender brush from her apron and placed it in his hand.
“Your daddy told this little man that Grandma loved stars. He’s been sneaking upstairs to help me paint them.”
Leo held the brush as though it were something sacred.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell,” he whispered.
“You didn’t tell the important part,” Nora said. “You saved that for tonight.”
