When I got home that afternoon, something was wrong. The silence had an unusual quality to it. She was usually out at this time, but somehow the absence was different.
I went into the lounge, and saw her armchair lying oddly against the wall in the afternoon sun. That was when I knew what had happened. She’d found it. She wasn’t coming back.
She didn’t know about it when we were first together, the second attempt I’d had at a relationship after the first one collapsed so spectacularly. Even after she moved in, I didn’t tell her. I was afraid of trusting anyone. I hid it, as long as I could, moving it to different places when I thought she was getting near. She started to get suspicious- always a problem, because then she started to look for things that weren’t there. She knew I was keeping something from her, but not what. It ate at her, at us.
Well, she found out. And just as I suspected, she left. I never thought she’d leave it behind, but when I went to the kitchen, there it was on the table. She wanted me to know she’d found it. She wanted me to know I should have trusted her. But I was too late. I was always too late.