I met Tatum.
She was practical, steady, realistic — everything Daphne wasn’t.
At that point in my life, that felt right.
We married, built a life that looked good from the outside.
Two kids. A dog. School events. Weekend trips. Stability.
It wasn’t unhappy.
Just… different.
When I was forty-two, we divorced quietly.
No betrayal. No anger.
We’d simply grown into roommates instead of partners.
Our kids, Rhys and Clover, were old enough to understand.
They turned out strong and kind, and for that, I’m grateful.
Still, Daphne never fully disappeared.
Every holiday season, I wondered about her — if she was happy, if she remembered us, if she’d ever truly stopped waiting.
Some nights, I could almost hear her laugh in my head.
Then, last year, everything changed.
I was in the attic searching for Christmas decorations on a freezing afternoon.
As I reached for an old yearbook, something slid free and fell against my foot.
Leave a Comment