food.
The wedding candle sat on the kitchen table.
I picked it up.
“Where do you want this?”
She thought about it.
Then pointed toward the windowsill.
“There.”
I placed it there.
Not burning.
Not hidden.
Not thrown away.
Simply sitting exactly where Amelia had decided it belonged.
My phone vibrated.
Ryan.
I expected an angry message.
Instead, he wrote:
“Tell Amelia I’m sorry I made her feel like she had to pretend she was okay.”
A second message appeared a moment later.
“And Annie… I think I’ve spent a
