What replaced it was something heavier.
A numbness that settled over me like a blanket, dulling everything it touched.
I wasn’t sad in the way grief movies show sadness.
I was emptied out.
On the second night, I dreamed Margaret was calling for me.
I woke up gasping, my heart racing, my body already moving before my mind caught up.
It took a few seconds to remember where I was.
The motel.
The bed.
The heater rattling.
No baby monitor.
No footsteps down the hall.
No one needed me.
The realization brought an unexpected ache—sharp and sudden.
For ten years, my purpose had been defined by someone else’s survival.
Now that was gone.
And I didn’t know who I was supposed to be without it.
By the third day, the room felt smaller, the walls pressing in as if they had moved closer overnight.
I paced the length of the carpet back and forth, counting my steps.
I had nothing to lose anymore.
The house was gone.
The family I thought I had was gone.
My past had been reduced to a transaction.
My future was a question mark.
I stopped in the middle of the room and looked under the bed.
The bag was still there.
The envelope was still inside, untouched.
I sat down and pulled it out, resting it on my lap.
