Chapter 3
Three
Caroline
Richard came back that afternoon with the same empty expression I’d seen in his father the day they put him in hospice. He didn’t apologize, didn’t make excuses, just moved through the house collecting things like he was on a scavenger hunt: shirts, razor, favorite cologne, his worn-in loafers.
I tried to follow him around, to catch his eye, to say anything that would slow him down, but he kept moving. The man who used to ask if I was okay just from the way I closed a cupboard now couldn’t even look me in the face.
He stood by the front door for a long moment, like he might change his mind. Then he said, “I’ll stay with Madison until this is settled. You should call Adele.”
There it was. Just like that.
He picked up the bag, walked out, and left me standing in the hallway in the same pajamas I’d slept in. I waited for the sound of the car engine, then the silence that followed.
I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, then another. My hands shook so badly I spilled the second all over the counter. I wiped it up with the dish towel, the one that still smelled like lemon and bleach, and tried to remember how breathing was supposed to work.
I stared at my wedding ring for a long time. The skin underneath was pale, a little indented. I twisted the band, pulled it off, and set it down on the counter next to the fridge magnets and junk mail.
The house was so quiet it felt like a tomb. I walked from room to room, taking inventory of everything Richard left behind. His slippers by the fireplace. His copy of the New Yorker, folded to the crossword. A half-empty bottle of shampoo in the shower.
I sat on the couch and stared at nothing. Time collapsed. Hours passed and I barely moved. The sun set. The streetlights came on.
At some point I ordered pizza, ate a single slice, and left the rest on the counter. I watched a rerun of “Law & Order” on mute. I finally called Adele, but she didn’t pick up, so I left a message. I don’t remember what I said. Probably nothing that made sense.
I lay on the couch with the TV on, afraid to go upstairs. The thought of sleeping in that bed, alone, was unbearable.
Across town, the lights were on at Massimo Coffee Roasters, even though the sign on the door said “Closed.” A few late-night regulars lingered by the counter, nursing cappuccinos and pretending not to notice the owner as he locked the register and started wiping down the espresso machine.
Noah Massimo did everything with this exact economy of motion: clean, precise, almost like a surgeon. His arms were tattooed, his face handsome in a way that snuck up on you—a strong jaw, dark eyes, hair just long enough to suggest he didn’t care, even though you knew he absolutely did.
He wished his customers a good night, shut the lights, and disappeared into the back. From there, a hallway led up to the private office, where three men waited, dressed better than any coffee supplier had a right to be.
The door shut with a click. Voices rose, then dropped. A briefcase slid across the desk. Noah opened it, flipped through a stack of papers, and nodded once. The men stood, shook hands, and left through the alley exit.
Noah leaned back in the chair, stared at the city lights, and poured himself a glass of something clear and expensive from the mini-fridge. He drank slowly, like someone who had nowhere else to be.
Eventually, he turned off the desk lamp, locked the office, and walked out into the blue-black night.
I didn’t know it then, but the same silence that had hollowed out my world was the only thing that made him feel at home.
Back in my house, I brushed my teeth, put on clean pajamas, and lay down on the bed. I stared at the ceiling and counted my breaths, waiting for sleep to come. It didn’t.
Instead, I thought about all the things I’d done right, and all the ways it still wasn’t enough.
I wondered if there was any part of me left that wasn’t too old, too tired, or too empty to matter.
And just before dawn, I finally understood: the rest of my life would be nothing like the first.
I heard the car before I saw it—a familiar rattle from Adele’s aging Honda Civic as it climbed the driveway, three hours earlier than her usual visits and two weeks before she was even supposed to be home.
I watched through the kitchen window as she killed the engine, popped the trunk, and stared at the house for a full minute before coming in.
She looked exactly like she did at ten, mouth twisted, eyes brimming, refusing to let me see her cry. But this time, she didn’t bother pretending.
She dropped her duffel in the entryway, rushed past me, and threw herself onto the couch. I followed, unsure whether to hug her or keep my distance.
“Mom,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He really did it. Didn’t he?”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “Yes.”
She looked at me, eyes wild. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you—should have known.”
I blinked, unsure how to answer. “You couldn’t have known, honey. You’re not responsible for your father’s choices.”
She shook her head, hard. “But Madison—she’s my friend. Was my friend.” She clenched her fists so tight her knuckles turned white. “How could she do that to you? To us?”
I wanted to say something wise or comforting, but all I could do was sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, and stare at the carpet.
The silence filled up the room, heavy and sour.
We sat there a long time, neither of us moving. When she finally spoke again, her voice was small and broken. “Are you okay?”
I almost laughed. “No. But I will be.” I tried to believe it.
She reached over, put her hand on mine. It was shaking.
“I feel like we died or something,” Adele said. “Like—like our family just got erased overnight.”
I squeezed her fingers, then pulled her in for a hug. She didn’t resist.
We spent the rest of the evening doing what we always did when life fell apart: baking.
I let her measure and mix, even though she always used too much vanilla.
We made bCarolinena bread and ate it hot out of the oven, burning our tongues and not caring.
We didn’t talk about Richard or Madison or what came next.
We just existed, side by side, the way we always did.
Afterwards, we started going through old photos and albums, the ones I’d hidden in the hall closet for “someday.” We sorted them into piles: keep, toss, who even is that?
There were pictures of Richard with a mustache, Richard holding Adele on his shoulders, Richard and me at our wedding, looking young and terrified.
I watched Adele as she went through them, her face cycling between nostalgia and rage. Every so often she’d grab a picture, stare at it like she could burn a hole through the paper, then toss it into the trash pile.
I wanted to tell her to stop, to save them, but it felt wrong to keep pretending.
By midnight, the kitchen table was buried in loose photographs and wedding mementos. Adele had given up trying not to cry. We both had. We sat on the floor with a bottle of cheap wine, passing it back and forth, neither of us saying much.
After a long silence, she finally asked, “What are you going to do now?”
I thought about it. “Get a job, I guess. Sell the house. Figure it out.”
She nodded like this made sense, then rested her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”
I hugged her tight. “Neither do you.”
We stayed like that until the wine was gone and our eyes couldn’t stay open. She slept in her childhood bed, surrounded by laundry and old posters. I curled up on the couch, hugging her baby blanket because it was the only thing in the house that didn’t smell like Richard.
When I woke in the morning, the house was still. The only sound was Adele in the kitchen, making coffee and singing along to a song she’d loved since middle school. I closed my eyes and let the warmth seep in, just for a moment.
We spent that day packing away the rest of the photos, the wedding china, the anniversary keepsakes. It felt like erasing a life, one cardboard box at a time. But every time it started to hurt too much, I’d hear Adele’s laugh echo from the hallway and remember that not everything was broken.
By sundown, we’d filled half the garage with boxes. Adele found the bracelet Richard gave me last year, slipped it on my wrist, and said, “You should keep this.”
I wanted to throw it out, but I left it on.
That night, we ordered takeout and watched bad reality TV until our eyes hurt.
At some point, Adele leaned her head against my arm and whispered, “We’re going to be okay, right?”
I didn’t know if I believed it. But I nodded and squeezed her hand, and for the first time in days, it almost felt true.