She answered practical questions—what time soccer practice ended, whether we needed milk, when the electric bill was due. But the warmth disappeared. The easy laughter. The absentminded hand on my back when she passed me in the hallway.
At night, she lay facing the other side of the bed, her body forming a quiet wall I didn’t know how to scale.
I told myself she was being sensitive.
I told myself I was just being honest.
Two weeks later, a large box arrived on the porch.
Anna’s name was written neatly across the top. No return address.
She was upstairs putting the baby down when I carried it inside.
Curiosity won.
I told myself I was just checking for damage. I opened it.
