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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Hannah insists on watching a movie after dinner, but she barely makes it through the opening scene before exhaustion catches up with her. Her head gradually grows heavier against my shoulder until she's completely asleep, her thumb tucked into her mouth and her blanket gathered beneath her chin.
Jo arrives a short while later, and we keep our voices low while Greyson carefully lifts Hannah into his arms. She doesn't stir as he carries her outside, and Jo makes a few trips between the house and her car, collecting the impressive assortment of bags she'd packed that morning before following them out to the driveway.
I stay behind, giving them a few minutes to get Hannah settled without another set of hands getting in the way.
The quiet feels different after spending the afternoon listening to a two-year-old narrate every thought that crosses her mind.
I wander through Greyson's living room without any particular destination, letting my attention land on the photographs scattered across the built-in shelves. Most of them are exactly what I'd expect to find. There are pictures from his years with the Cardinals, smiling teammates I don't recognize, one of him standing between Mitchell and Wyatt with their arms thrown over each other's shoulders, and another of him with his parents on the field after a game.
Then I notice a frame tucked slightly behind the others, and I pick it up carefully.
It's us.
The picture was taken during our trip to Los Angeles. I don't remember who took it because neither of us is paying any attention to the camera. Greyson is looking at me as though I've just said something that made his entire day, and I'm laughing hard enough that my eyes are closed.
Another frame sits beside it.
This one is older, taken at Dawson's Beach the summer after graduation – before everything fell apart. We're naïve kids, sunburned, and grinning at the camera as though we have our entire lives figured out.
I stare at both pictures longer than I mean to.
After everything that happened between us, I honestly thought he'd gotten rid of every reminder that I'd ever been here. Instead, he dusted them, framed them, and left them sitting on a shelf where he could see them every day.
Carefully, I return the frames to exactly where I found them before moving toward the bookcase. The first shelf is full of baseball biographies and history books, exactly what I'd expect. The second surprises me.
Books on leadership. Resilience. Grief. Finding purpose. Building healthier habits.
I trail my fingers lightly across the spines, trying to picture the version of Greyson who reached for these books, when I hear the front door close behind me.
"You know that's usually considered snooping."
I glance over my shoulder to find him leaning against the door, watching me with an amused smile.
