Chương 4
When I left, Sophie ran outside and waved.
I waved back.
The trip had started feeling real.
Not because of the rental car.
Not because of the reservations.
Because I had finally stopped pretending that wanting something for myself was the same as taking something away from someone else.
At home, Richard had placed a printed copy of our original route on the table.
The paper was covered with his handwriting.
I almost walked past it.
Then I noticed something.
He had added a new note beside Yellowstone.
“Still want to see sunrise here.”
I stood there for a long time.
Because that sentence hurt more than anger would have.
It sounded like a reminder that the dream had belonged to both of us.
And maybe it still did.
I went upstairs without saying anything.
Monday was coming.
For the first time in thirty years, I was not sure exactly what my life would look like when it arrived.
Monday morning arrived without any dramatic moment.
No argument.
No apology.
No last-minute confession.
Just the sound of the alarm at 5:45 and the quiet routine of two people who had shared a house for more than three decades.
Richard was already awake.
I could tell because the bathroom light was on.
For years, I had measured the beginning of my days by his habits.
The shower running.
The cabinet door opening.
The coffee grinder starting.
The small cough he made before speaking in the morning.
It was strange how familiar a person could be and how uncertain they could suddenly feel.
I dressed in jeans, a comfortable shirt, and the walking shoes I had bought specifically for the trip.
Richard came into the bedroom while I was tying my hair back.
“You’re really doing this.”
I looked at him through the mirror.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
There was no anger in his face anymore.
That almost made it harder.
“I packed some things for you.”
I turned around.
“What?”
He pointed toward a small bag on the chair.
“Snacks.”
I opened it.
Protein bars.
Crackers.
A bag of almonds.
The exact brand of mints I liked.
I looked at him.
“You bought all this?”
“Yesterday.”
“When?”
“After you went to Denise’s.”
I touched the top of the bag.
It was such a Richard thing to do.
He struggled with emotional conversations, but he knew how to prepare a cooler for a six-hour drive.
He knew how to check tire pressure.
He knew how to make sure I had enough gas before a storm.
He often loved people through practical actions because words made him uncomfortable.
That had always been both his strength and his weakness.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded.
Then he looked at the suitcase.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
I zipped the bag closed.
“Maybe nothing.”
“That feels wrong.”
“Sometimes saying the wrong thing makes it worse.”
He gave a small smile.
“That sounds like something you would put on a pillow.”
“I hate those pillows.”
He laughed quietly.
It was the first normal sound between us in days.
For a second, we were just Richard and Laura again.
Not two people standing on opposite sides of a hurt.
Then the moment passed.
“I can drive you to the airport,” he said.
“I can drive myself.”
“I know.”
He picked up his keys.
“I still want to.”
I hesitated.
The old version of me would have accepted immediately.
Not because I wanted the ride.
Because accepting would keep things smooth.
But smooth was not the same as honest.
“Okay,” I said.
The drive was mostly quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Just unfamiliar.
We passed the grocery store where we always shopped.
The church where our daughter had gotten married.
The diner where Richard insisted they had the best pancakes in the county even though everyone knew the pancakes were average.
I watched the familiar streets move past the window.
A person could spend years wanting change and still grieve the things they were leaving behind.
At the airport, Richard parked near the departures entrance.
He lifted my suitcase from the trunk.
“You have your license?”
“Yes.”
“Credit card?”
“Yes.”
“Phone charger?”
I looked at him.
He stopped.
“Sorry.”
I smiled slightly.
“That one was fair.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I know.”
We stood there with the noise of luggage carts and announcements moving around us.
Families hugged.
Business travelers checked their phones.
A little boy dragged a stuffed dinosaur through the automatic doors.
Life continued without caring that we were having a significant moment.
“I’m proud of you,” Richard said.
The sentence surprised me.
“For what?”
He shrugged.
“For going.”
I looked at him.
“I’m not sure I’m brave.”
“You are.”
“No.”
I adjusted the strap on my purse.
“I think I’m just tired.”
He looked down.
Maybe because he understood.
Maybe because he did not.
“Call me when you get there.”
“And text me.”
He nodded.
Then he reached for a hug.
For a moment, I almost stepped back.
Not because I did not want it.
Because I was afraid a hug would make me feel like everything was repaired.
It wasn’t.
But I hugged him anyway.
Some things could be complicated and still be real.
When I pulled away, he said, “I’m sorry.”
This time, I heard the words differently.
Not as a solution.
As an admission.
“I know,” I said.
Then I picked up my suitcase and walked inside.
The rental car was waiting in the economy lot when I arrived at the other side of the airport.
The SUV was silver.
Not the color I would have chosen.
I had imagined something more adventurous, even though I knew that was ridiculous.
Apparently I had expected the vehicle itself to understand the emotional significance of the moment.
It did not.
It was just a car.
I put my bag in the back, adjusted the mirrors, and sat behind the wheel.
For several minutes, I did nothing.
May you like
I listened to the engine hum.
I watched planes rise above the terminal.
