He wore the gray sweater I had given him for Christmas.
Behind him, the framed wedding picture that normally sat near the pantry was gone.
The date on the message was three months earlier.
Beneath the photograph, Julian had written:
Finally cleared the last of Camille’s things out. Feels like my house again.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
“That’s our kitchen.”
Sabrina’s hand lowered slightly.
“I thought it was his house.”
“It’s our house.”
Julian pushed his chair backward.
“We are not doing this here.”
I turned toward him.
“You sent her photographs from our house?”
“Camille—”
“And you removed our wedding pictures first?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Sabrina looked at him as though she had never seen him before.
“You told me you bought that house after the divorce.”
Julian exhaled sharply.
“Sabrina, you came here angry. Fine. You made your scene. Now leave.”
Her face went white.
“My scene?”
“Yes.”
“You told me you were working late tonight.”
I turned toward him again.
Our anniversary dinner had been booked three weeks earlier.
Julian had chosen the restaurant.
He had even complained that the only available reservation was later than he wanted.
Sabrina continued.
“You said you had a client meeting.”
Julian lowered his voice.
“Go home.”
Something in me steadied.
Not because I was calm.
Because suddenly I was watching him from outside the marriage.
The impatient tone.
The narrowed eyes.
The way he spoke as if the person challenging him was the problem.
I had heard that tone before.
I just never understood what it was hiding.
I looked at Sabrina.
“Sit down.”
Julian stared at me.
“What?”
I pulled out the empty chair.
“Sit.”
Sabrina hesitated.
Then she sat.
Julian remained standing.
“Camille, don’t do this.”
I looked up at him.
