I nodded.
“Just remembering.”
She looked toward the wall.
Then placed an arm around my shoulders.
“You can remember good things without going back.”
I smiled through tears.
“I know.”
We left the house that afternoon.
Several months later, it sold.
The closing process was ordinary.
Inspections.
Repairs.
Documents.
Signatures.
The mortgage was paid.
The remaining proceeds were distributed according to the settlement we’d reached.
Nothing dramatic happened at the closing table.
Desmond and I signed the papers.
Exchanged polite goodbyes.
And went our separate ways.
But when I walked out of the title company’s office, I felt something enormous settle into place.
For months, part of my life had remained connected to the house we’d shared.
Now that chapter was officially complete.
I could look toward the future without wondering when another document or decision would require us to revisit the past.
I returned to my apartment.
Opened the windows.
And let the fresh air fill the rooms.
By then, I’d been promoted at work.
The operations supervisor position had become available, and I’d applied.
The interview was challenging.
There were questions about leadership, project management, and handling disagreements between departments.
I answered confidently.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t measuring my value by whether someone chose to love me.
I was thinking about what I knew, what I could do, and what kind of work made me proud.
When my manager offered me the position, I called Maribel before anyone else.
She answered immediately.
“Well?”
I laughed.
“I got it.”
She cheered so loudly I had to move the phone away from my ear.
Then she said, “I knew you would.”
I smiled.
For a moment, I remembered Desmond telling me that Blythe was ambitious and exciting.
I’d never thought to describe myself that way.
But sitting in my apartment with a new job offer in my hand, I realized I had ambitions of my own.
I’d simply spent years fitting them around someone else’s plans.
Now I wanted to see what they could become.
I began making changes.
Small ones at first.
I bought a dining table.
Nothing expensive.
Just a simple oak table that fit perfectly beside the kitchen window.
I assembled it myself on a Saturday afternoon.
The instructions were confusing.
I attached one support backward and had to redo it.
At one point, I sat on the floor laughing because I’d misplaced a screw that was sitting directly beside my knee.
But when the table was finished, I stood back and smiled.
It was mine.
Chosen by me.
Built with my own hands.
Then I invited Maribel and two friends from work to dinner.
I cooked pasta.
Burned the garlic bread slightly.
And opened a bottle of sparkling cider.
We laughed.
Talked.
And spent the evening discussing books, travel, and the strange things people do at work.
Nobody asked why Desmond wasn’t there.
Nobody treated me like a woman whose life had become incomplete because her marriage ended.
For the first time, I felt comfortable being simply Corrine.
Not Desmond’s wife.
Not the woman he’d left.
Not someone waiting for a decision.
Just myself.
That spring, I finally booked the trip I’d been dreaming about for years.
Italy.
Not the elaborate two-week journey Desmond and I had once discussed.
A smaller trip with Maribel.
A few days in Florence.
A train through Tuscany.
A quiet hotel near a little town where we could walk, eat good food, and enjoy the countryside.
When I booked the tickets, I felt nervous.
For years, I’d imagined traveling there with Desmond.
Now I was going with my sister.
I wondered whether the experience would feel incomplete.
But when we arrived in Florence, I forgot about that worry.
The city was beautiful.
Stone streets.
Church bells.
Sunlight moving across old buildings.
Cafés filled with people talking over tiny cups of coffee.
Maribel and I spent hours wandering through museums.
We ate gelato in the afternoon.
Got lost twice.
And laughed so hard during one disastrous attempt to order dinner that I nearly spilled my water.
One evening, we sat on a terrace overlooking the countryside.
The sky was turning pink.
The air smelled of warm stone and summer flowers.
Maribel raised her glass.
“To the trip you were always going to take someday.”
I smiled.
“To finally taking it.”
We sat quietly.
Then she looked toward me.
“Are you happy?”
I considered the question.
For a moment, I remembered Desmond.
The house.
The wedding photograph.
The life I’d imagined we’d share.
I still felt sadness sometimes.
There were evenings when I missed the man he’d been during our early years.
There were songs that reminded me of our first dates.
Places I couldn’t visit without thinking about him.
But those memories no longer controlled my decisions.
I looked toward the hills.
Then smiled.
“Yes.”
Maribel studied me.
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Not every minute.”
She laughed softly.
“Nobody is.”
I smiled.
“But I’m happy with the life I’m building.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Good.”
When we returned home, I placed a framed photograph from Tuscany beside my living room window.
It showed Maribel and me standing beneath a row of cypress trees.
We were laughing.
The wind had blown my hair across my face.
It wasn’t a perfect picture.
But I loved it.
I placed it beside a smaller frame containing a photograph of my parents and another of my friends from work.
I didn’t put Desmond’s photograph back on display.
I kept it in a box with other memories.