I hadn’t been there in years.
I read it once, then again.
Outside, the wind picked up. A single leaf dragged itself across the kitchen window and clung there, like it was trying to stay.
I looked at Alex. He didn’t speak; he just watched me the way Richard used to when he didn’t know how to fix something.
I read it once, then again.
I traced the edge of the sticky note again.
“He left,” I said softly. “So I could keep the light on. My light…”
“You did, Mom,” Alex said, his voice cracking.
And for the first time in five years, I let myself believe it — and the warmth of it nearly broke me.
“He left.”
