Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I wake up the next morning already exhausted.
For a few quiet seconds, I lie there staring at the ceiling, my body heavy against the mattress, my mind slow to catch up to the feeling pressing against my chest. It takes a moment for everything to settle into place – not all at once, but in fragments that piece themselves together whether I'm ready for them or not.
The kitchen floor.
The papers spread out in front of me.
My father's voice, concerned but calm, telling me it was time to go upstairs.
I turn onto my side and close my eyes, pressing my face into the pillow as if that might be enough to keep the rest of it from surfacing.
Newsflash: it isn't.
Sleep must have come at some point, but it didn't stay long enough to matter. My head aches faintly, my limbs feel weighted, and there's a dull, persistent tightness in my chest that makes even the simple act of breathing feel like something I have to think about.
I push myself upright and sit there for a moment, my hands resting loosely in my lap, my thoughts hovering just out of reach. It would be easier not to follow them. To stay here, suspended in this quiet space where nothing has to be acknowledged. But that doesn't last either.
Greyson's voice slips in before I can stop it.
There she goes... doing what she does best.
I press my lips together and swing my legs over the side of the bed, forcing myself to stand before the memory has a chance to take root any deeper. The house is quiet as I step into the hallway – too quiet. The sort of quiet that feels intentional, like my parents have made an unspoken agreement to give me space this morning.
Honestly, I'm grateful for it.
I make it halfway down the stairs before the thought catches up with me – the envelope.
My hand tightens slightly on the railing as I pause, my gaze dropping toward the kitchen below. For a second, I consider turning around. Going back upstairs. Pretending I forgot something.
Instead, I keep going.
The kitchen looks exactly the same as it always does – clean, still, untouched by anything that happened here yesterday. For a brief, irrational instant, I let myself believe it might have been a dream.
Then I see it.
The manilla envelope sits neatly stacked with the rest of the mail on the counter, as though it belongs there. As though it's just another piece of paper and not something capable of dismantling an entire life.
Of course it is.
I look away.
Moving toward the coffee maker, more out of habit than intention, I begin going through the motions without really thinking – cup, machine, On button – watching as the dark stream fills the mug.
