Five minutes later, I opened the door again.
Gary stood on my porch, his face bright with anticipation. He had already dragged one suitcase halfway toward the entrance, apparently assuming I would soon be helping him carry the rest.
“Ready?” he asked.
I smiled.
“Absolutely.”
Behind me, Linda stepped into view, holding a large cardboard box.
Gary blinked.
“What’s she doing here?”
Linda grinned. “Oh, Gary. We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
I stepped aside, revealing the living room.
It was no longer the home Gary remembered.
Four months
ago, when he had walked out, I had been devastated. But after weeks of crying, I finally realized something important: the house was mine. The mortgage was in my name. The furniture had been purchased with my money. And the life I had built didn’t have to collapse simply because Gary had decided to abandon it.
So I had made changes.
