Husbant of 20 years, vanished on our aniversery and when he came back he says he does not remeber anything

CHAPTER 1: Anniversary Rituals

The kitchen always felt smaller when I was fussing. Maybe it was the steam or the fact that every drawer seemed to stick worse when I was in a hurry. Tonight, I wanted everything perfect, which of course meant nothing would go right.

I set Mark’s favorite pan—the battered cast iron he’d insisted on rescuing from his mom’s attic—onto the stove and watched butter hiss into gold. The recipe card fluttered on the counter, speckled with old stains and my own scribbled notes: “Don’t overcook!” underlined twice in a rushy scrawl. The house smelled like garlic and thyme, warm enough to drown out last week’s rain that still lingered in the carpets.

Ethan thudded down the stairs, earbuds jammed deep. He glanced at me but didn’t say anything, just hovered near the fridge until I noticed him.

“Hey,” I said, catching his eye in the reflection of the microwave door. “No snacking before dinner.”

He shrugged one shoulder—a movement half apology, half challenge—and grabbed a La Croix anyway.

“It’s seltzer,” he mumbled around a yawn.

“Still counts as pre-dinner sabotage.” My voice came out lighter than it felt; Ethan looked tired again. Junior year had turned him into a sleepwalker with algebra-induced headaches and an endless supply of hoodies.

He flopped onto a barstool, scrolling through his phone with practiced indifference. “What’re we having?”

“Chicken Marsala,” I said. “Dad’s favorite.”

Ethan grunted approval—or maybe it was just acknowledgment—then looked up long enough to ask: “You want help?”

I almost laughed; he only offered when he thought I’d say no. But tonight…”Sure! You can slice mushrooms.”

He made a face but slid off his stool without more protest than usual. We stood side by side at the counter while I rinsed creminis and handed him Mark’s old paring knife—its handle smoothed by years of Sunday omelets and camping trips where Mark had used it for everything from whittling sticks to opening stubborn chip bags.

Ethan started chopping with slow concentration—not quite clumsy, but careful in that way teenage boys are when they don’t want to look uncool but also don’t want to lose a finger. For a moment it was so normal my heart squeezed tight.

“You think Dad’ll be late?” Ethan asked after three mushrooms and an awkward silence.

“He texted he’d be home by six.” A lie—I’d gotten no such message—but habits die hard after twenty years together: cover for each other first, then worry later if you have time.

Outside our kitchen window, dusk pressed against glass streaked with fingerprints and last month’s pollen dust. Across our cul-de-sac, Marjorie Blevins’ porch light blinked on—a Morse code invitation for anyone interested in neighborhood gossip or stray cats looking for tuna scraps.

I checked my phone again out of reflex; nothing from Mark since noon—a thumbs-up emoji about picking up wine at Greenleaf Market after work. That was hours ago now, but anxiety didn’t fit tonight’s plan so I tucked it away beside memories of anniversaries past: rainy picnics under fir trees; cheap hotel sheets scratchy against sunburnt skin; candlelit dinners interrupted by toddler tantrums or last-minute calls from engineering clients who couldn’t find their own blueprints if they were stapled to their foreheads.

This year was supposed to be quieter—just us three at home before life scattered us further apart next fall when Ethan left for college (maybe Seattle U., maybe Portland State; he still hadn’t decided).

“How many do you need?” Ethan asked without looking up from his mushroom massacre.

“Uh…all of them?” He snorted softly—a sound so much like Mark that for a second my chest hurt all over again—and swept another pile into neatish rows on the board.

The timer beeped behind me; pasta water boiling over as usual because some things never change no matter how many times you promise yourself you’ll watch more closely next time. Steam clouded my glasses as I dumped noodles into salted water and stirred with Mark’s wooden spoon—the one chewed at one end where he’d absentmindedly gnawed during late-night grading marathons back when we were both younger and believed we could fix anything broken if we only tried hard enough together.

My phone buzzed then—a group text ping about tomorrow night’s book club meeting (“Bring wine! And tissues!!”), followed immediately by Sam popping up with her usual timing:

Sam: Surviving anniversary prep? Need backup?

Me: So far so good! If you hear sirens though…

Sam: LOL don’t burn down your house before cake

Me: Not making cake this year

Sam: Scandalous

Ethan peeked at my screen as if expecting something juicier than best-friend banter between middle-aged women desperately pretending not to be middle-aged yet.

“You inviting Aunt Sam?” he asked hopefully (he still called her ‘Aunt’ sometimes even though she wasn’t related except by proximity and mutual trauma bonding).

“She’ll stop by later,” I said, which probably meant she’d show up tomorrow morning demanding coffee and postmortem analysis whether invited or not.

By six-thirty there was still no sign of headlights swinging across our driveway gravel or keys jangling in the lock—no familiar scent of Mark trailing behind him like sawdust after shop class or city office paper mixed with whatever cologne bottle happened to survive Ethan’s last bathroom science experiment gone wrong (“It exploded everywhere!”).

Dinner plates warmed quietly in the oven while Ethan retreated upstairs muttering about homework deadlines that may or may not have been real depending on how much Fortnite beckoned instead. Alone again, I set three places out anyway—habit stronger than logic—and flicked through Instagram photos of friends’ vacation sunsets until every caption blurred into cheerful sameness:

#blessed #anniversarylove #20yearsstrong

Twenty years strong—I should’ve posted something too; people expected proof these days that love lasted longer than Amazon Prime shipping estimates or HOA board elections (Marjorie ran unopposed every year because nobody wanted her job—or her enemies). Instead all I could think about were empty chairs pulled close together against cold air creeping under doors once night fell too fast outside our little bubble house built for forever instead of right now.

At seven-twenty-two (I remember exactly because church bells chimed downriver) Marjorie appeared silhouetted against twilight glare on our front walk holding what looked suspiciously like another one of her infamous zucchini breads wrapped in plastic wrap tighter than airport security checks post-9/11. She rang once—sharp—and waited just long enough for me to dry hands on jeans before letting myself get cornered politely near the doorframe while she delivered condolences about traffic jams (“Awful this time of year!”) and dropped hints about seeing someone who looked like Mark downtown earlier (“Or maybe it wasn’t him—you know how men blend together in those blue shirts…”).

“Just let me know if you need anything,” she said finally as though kindness could be rationed per household according to zip code quotas set sometime during Reagan’s presidency.

“I will,” I promised.

She patted my arm twice—the universal signal for neighborly concern mixed liberally with nosiness—and vanished back toward her floodlit porch oasis next door where nothing ever changed except window wreaths swapped out monthly according to Hallmark calendar dictates.

I carried zucchini bread back inside wishing vaguely that Marjorie would someday discover gluten intolerance just for sport.

Lights flickered overhead as wind nudged branches along gutters clogged since October leaf drop; somewhere outside an owl called low and mournful beneath swollen clouds threatening another round of drizzle.

By eight o’clock even optimism tasted stale alongside leftover Marsala sauce congealing at room temperature.

Upstairs boards creaked—a sign Ethan had fallen asleep reading physics notes sprawled across his bed—but downstairs every shadow stretched longer than memory itself.

Mark still wasn’t home.

And suddenly all those little rituals we built brick-by-brick became fragile things trembling under too much weight:

Three plates waiting,

One seat empty,

A phone silent beside cooling food,

And outside—the world spinning forward whether we kept pace or not.

CHAPTER 2: Chapter 2: The Story Continues

The house felt emptier on the second day. Not silent, exactly—Ethan’s music still pulsed through his closed bedroom door upstairs, and the dryer thumped with a load of towels Julia had started hours ago but never bothered to fold. But there was a hollowness to the air, a subtle draft under every window and door. Each time she passed Mark’s slippers by the mudroom bench or glimpsed his mug on the counter, Julia’s skin prickled in a way that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t far from it.

She moved through rooms like she’d misplaced something crucial—her phone? Her keys? No, Mark. She kept expecting to hear him shout for her from the backyard or see his text pop up with one of those dumb GIFs he loved sending during meetings. Instead: nothing.

At 9:07 AM she called his cell again, even though logic said not to bother. Voicemail after three rings, his voice as familiar as breath: “Hey, you’ve reached Mark Reynolds—I’m probably stuck in traffic or lost in blueprints. Leave me something good.” She hung up before the beep.

Downstairs, Ethan stomped into the kitchen in sweats and socks so worn at the heel they flapped against the tile. He didn’t look at her; just opened the fridge and stared blankly inside.

“You want eggs?” Julia offered.

He shrugged without turning around. “Not hungry.”

She watched him grab an energy drink—those neon cans he knew she hated—and crack it open with a hiss that sounded too loud for morning. His hair was smashed down on one side from sleep.

“School starts in half an hour,” she said gently.

“I know.” He took a sip and finally glanced her way; his eyes were rimmed red behind smudgy glasses. “Are you… Are you going back to work today?”

“No,” Julia said quickly. The idea of sitting through budget meetings at the library while pretending everything was normal made her throat close up. “I told them I need some time.”

Ethan nodded like this answer existed somewhere between obvious and useless, then grabbed his backpack from where he’d dumped it last night by the door.

She hesitated before asking—the air between them already so thin—but couldn’t help herself: “Do you want me to drive you?”

“Nah.” Another shrug. “Sam can give me a ride.” He slid out into the hallway before she could protest.

Julia followed him as far as the porch, watching him trudge across dew-wet grass toward Sam’s battered Civic idling at the curb. Sam waved when she saw Julia; Julia tried for a smile but only managed something brittle around her teeth.

Inside again, there was nothing left to do but pace circles around their living room until her nerves frayed enough that even breathing felt too loud in her chest.

* * *

By ten-thirty she’d answered two calls from neighbors—Marjorie Blevins first (“Just checking if you’ve heard anything dear! The whole block is worried sick!”), then Carlos Jimenez from Mark’s office (“We’re all hoping this is just… y’know… some weird misunderstanding?”). She gave both of them vague reassurances because what else could she say? No news yet; yes, we’ve called everyone; yes, I’ll let you know if anything changes; thank you for thinking of us.

Afterwards Julia leaned against their cool quartz countertop and let herself drift back through yesterday piece by piece: setting out candles on their anniversary table (the lavender ones Mark always complained smelled like soap), folding cloth napkins into triangles just so, texting Ethan not to be late home if he wanted steak…

And then waiting.

And waiting.

And realizing an hour had passed since Mark should have been home.

Calling once—then twice—then five times.

That slow bloom of dread behind her sternum as minutes slipped into hours.

The police officer’s calm voice as he took her statement last night: When did you last see your husband? Any history of depression or stress? Any recent arguments?

Julia closed her eyes against it all until someone knocked sharply at their front door—a quick rat-a-tat that spoke more of impatience than concern.

It was Sam: hair up in a messy bun that still somehow looked intentional, thermos clutched tight under one arm like ammunition. She pushed past Julia before being invited inside.

“Coffee,” Sam announced flatly, holding out an extra travel mug without ceremony. “Because if I don’t keep moving I’ll start screaming.”

Julia wrapped both hands around it gratefully—the heat anchoring her for half a heartbeat—and let herself sag onto one end of their couch while Sam perched cross-legged at the other end among last night’s abandoned throw pillows.

“They find anything yet?” Sam asked quietly after a moment spent scanning Julia’s face for signs beyond words.

“No.” The word came out cracked around its edges despite how many times she’d repeated it since yesterday evening—to cops and family members and now to Sam—as if saying it enough would sand off its sharpness or make it less true somehow.

Sam swore softly under her breath then sipped noisily from her own mug—the sound filling space where comfort ought to live but didn’t quite settle right now.

They sat together in silence except for occasional slurps until finally Julia couldn’t take another round of staring at untouched surfaces (the bookshelf dustier than usual; photo frames slightly askew).

“I keep thinking maybe he walked away,” she whispered suddenly—not sure who needed convincing more: herself or Sam—or maybe some cosmic force listening in secret behind their walls. “Like just…left us.”

Sam turned toward her fully now; sympathy warred with skepticism across her face as lines deepened near one brow—a tiny frown mark that seemed permanent lately since all this started with Ethan acting out senior year stress or Mark forgetting groceries more often than usual—

“Jules,” Sam interrupted gently but firmly enough that Julia stopped spiraling mid-sentence without meaning to. “Mark doesn’t just walk away from things.” She paused meaningfully before adding: “…Or people.”

Julia wanted badly to believe that—to lean back into twenty years’ worth of shared routines and private jokes—but something about yesterday kept snagging at memory’s edge: how distracted Mark had seemed over breakfast (quiet instead of teasing), how he’d lingered by the mailbox longer than necessary when leaving for work—

What if there *was* something else?

As if reading thoughts off Julia’s face instead of hearing them aloud (as best friends sometimes do), Sam pressed closer so their knees almost touched amid rumpled cushions:

“He’ll come home,” she said fiercely—almost daring anyone (including fate) to argue otherwise—but then softened enough to squeeze Julia’s hand once before letting go again quickly as though afraid hope might bite back if held too long.

* * *

Later still—in late afternoon shadows stretching long across hardwood floors—Julia found herself standing helplessly outside Dr. Lina Patel’s clinic while Ethan hunched beside her scrolling through texts on his phone with compulsive urgency no doubt borrowed straight from his father’s DNA strand labeled ‘worrywart.’

They waited beneath potted ferns wilting slightly despite daily misting schedules posted by local Girl Scouts trying hard for botany badges nobody really cared about except maybe Mrs. Hinshaw next door whose own gardenia bush always bloomed precisely four days after Memorial Day each spring regardless what climate change tried pulling behind its back—

Julia blinked hard against these absurd details because they grounded everything else threatening to spiral away unmoored—the missing shoeprints on gravel outside their driveway last night when police canvassed neighbors (nothing suspicious found); Marjorie waving binoculars openly from across street this morning (“You can borrow mine dear!”); Harper Lee Chang spelling names wrong again on coffee cup lids (“Joolya”—close enough).

Inside Dr Patel’s office sunlight striped pale over anatomical diagrams tacked crookedly above crowded bookshelves stuffed with neurology journals older than Ethan himself—

Dr Patel listened intently while flipping discreetly through intake forms already flagged urgent by reception staff who recognized panic better than most ER nurses ever would:

“So there were no warning signs?” Lina asked quietly—a pen hovering over clipboard poised either to record facts or offer sympathy depending which truth revealed itself first tonight—

Julia shook head slow deliberate once twice three times—

“No fights—not really—we argued about recycling bins last week but…” Words failed beneath weight heavier than any trash barrel ever could become overnight when someone simply vanished right out middle ordinary day—

Lina nodded silently jotting notes anyway;

Ethan stared holes straight through faded carpet patterning;

Sunlight shifted along window ledge marking passage neither swift nor gentle anymore;

Finally doctor cleared throat soft enough not spook birds nesting somewhere nearby:

“We’ll reach out soonest anything comes up—from hospitals or law enforcement—you have my cell now too okay?”

Julia nodded clutching paper scrap tight enough knuckles whitened briefly;

Ethan muttered thanks barely audible behind hoodie strings pulled low over chin;

Outside again walking past parking lot oil stains shaped vaguely like continents nobody would ever visit together,

Julia wondered suddenly whether grief had shape—or smell—or sound

because everywhere now felt haunted

by absence wearing Mark’s old shirts,

his cologne clinging faintly beneath bathroom sink cabinet,

his toothbrush dry upright beside hers,

and every ordinary thing

aching quietly

for explanation

that refused arriving

before dark fell all over again,

just like last night,

only colder this time—

and still no sign he’d return tomorrow,

or ever,

or even remember why he’d left them here waiting

in rooms steadily emptying themselves

of everything except hope stretched thinner than daylight could reach.

A single ping broke silence—the sharp notification echoing through foyer where she’d dropped phone carelessly earlier—and even knowing better,

even knowing odds were slim,

she ran anyway,

heart hammering wild desperate

toward whatever message waited

on screen glowing bright

against gathering dusk

CHAPTER 3: The Stranger at the Door

The first thing I noticed was the sound—a scrabbling, almost apologetic rustle at the front door. Not loud enough to be alarming, but odd enough to yank me out of sleep before my brain caught up. I lay there for a moment, heart ticking faster than it should, listening through the hush of midnight and rain sliding down the gutters outside. The digital clock glowed 2:14 in a sickly blue.

I thought maybe it was Ethan coming home late—again—but he’d texted hours ago from Sam’s place, promising me “no drama tonight.” The house was too quiet for him anyway; when Ethan came home late, every floorboard moaned like it was tattling on him.

Another scrape. A slow rattle of the handle. My mouth went dry.

There are things you do without thinking: grab your phone off the nightstand, flick on the lamp (but only halfway), tiptoe to peer out through the window above the stairs. I did all that with my stomach somewhere near my ankles.

From between bent slats in our blinds, I saw a figure on the porch—hood up, shoulders hunched against drizzle. Not moving with purpose or confidence; more like someone who’d lost something important and wasn’t sure where to look next.

I pressed myself against cold glass and squinted harder. It couldn’t be—

But it was.

Mark.

Or someone wearing Mark’s favorite gray hoodie—frayed cuffs, logo peeling from too many washes—and standing on our welcome mat as if he belonged nowhere else in the world but didn’t quite know how to enter anymore.

My fingers fumbled with the lock. There wasn’t time for fear or caution or even shoes; adrenaline overrode common sense as I yanked open the door so fast it banged against its stopper.

Rain hit my ankles and Mark blinked at me, eyes wide and unfocused under drooping hair gone wild from weather and neglect. His beard had grown patchy and uneven—not his usual neat trim but something desperate that made him look both older and strangely unfamiliar.

For half a second we just stared at each other—the universe paused between inhale and exhale—before he finally spoke:

“I—I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice hoarse like gravel scraping pavement. “Am I… supposed to be here?”

I can count on one hand the times Mark Reynolds has ever sounded unsure about anything in his life—usually about IKEA instructions or whether Ethan really needed another skateboard—but this wasn’t confusion over an allen wrench or missing parts. This was existential bewilderment carved into every line of his face.

“You’re…” My throat closed around words that made no sense now. “Mark? Is that you?”

He looked down at himself as if checking for name tags—then back up at me with trembling lips forming shapes they couldn’t quite commit to saying aloud.

“I don’t… remember,” he whispered finally, flinching away from my gaze as though memory itself were something toxic burning behind his eyes.

Behind us, thunder rolled far off toward Baker Ridge—a reminder of real things happening beyond this impossible threshold where we both stood barefooted by accident rather than design.

“Come inside,” I said because what else could I say? The air between us felt electrified with questions neither of us knew how to ask yet. He stepped forward hesitantly; his sneakers squelched wetly across our entry rug—that rug Marjorie Blevins called “a dust magnet” last week while dropping off rhubarb muffins she pretended not to want back—and left muddy prints shaped eerily like footprints from some parallel life.

Inside smelled faintly of lavender dryer sheets and last night’s takeout containers still waiting by the sink (Thai curry again; Ethan insisted). Mark hovered just inside the doorway as if afraid crossing further might erase him completely—or worse: root him somewhere he no longer belonged.

He scanned everything—the row of family photos lining our hallway wall; Ethan’s abandoned backpack leaking calculus homework onto tile; even Harper’s doodle-covered mug drying beside a chipped plate—as if cataloguing artifacts from an exhibit about strangers who lived here once upon a time but never invited him in before tonight.

“Julia?” His eyebrows knitted together painfully tight as he tasted my name like something half-remembered from a dream fragment slipping away with daylight. “Is that right? Julia?”

“Yes.” My own voice shook now—anger trembling beneath relief beneath horror beneath hope—as if all four emotions were wrestling for dominance inside my chest cavity at once. “It’s me.”

We stood facing each other awkwardly under yellow hallway light while rain spatters played percussion outside against cedar siding and wind rattled loose gutter nails overhead—a symphony for returning ghosts no one asked for but here we were anyway playing lead roles without scripts or rehearsal time allotted by fate or common decency alike.

“What happened?” My hands fluttered uselessly then landed gently on his arm (solid bone under cotton fabric) just so I could reassure myself this wasn’t some elaborate hallucination cooked up by grief-broken synapses firing wild after two weeks spent sleeping alone hugging only Mark’s pillow instead of Mark himself.

His skin felt fever-warm—or maybe that was mine—and goosebumps prickled along both our forearms in unison despite central heating humming faithfully behind vent grilles painted over too many times since we bought this house together twenty years ago next Tuesday (or yesterday? Time bent backwards lately).

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly after several heartbeats had stumbled past us unnoticed except by pulse points throbbing loudly in ears straining for answers that wouldn’t come easy tonight—or ever possibly—from lips chapped raw by windstorm secrets kept far too long already.

Ethan appeared suddenly halfway down staircase—hair mussed, sockless as usual—with sleepy suspicion shadowing teenage features caught between boyhood softness dissolving into man-shaped worry lines overnight since all this started.

“Dad?” His voice cracked—not puberty anymore but fear threading syllables sharp enough to draw blood if spoken too quickly.

Mark turned slowly toward him—the way people turn toward unfamiliar music drifting through open windows late at night—and studied Ethan’s face intently before offering an apologetic smile three beats too late.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said again—to both of us now apparently—a phrase looping endlessly around whatever wound gnawed invisible holes into memories none of us wanted replaced or repaired piecemeal like thrift store furniture reassembled wrong-side-up.

“He doesn’t remember anything.” My words dropped flatly onto hardwood planks scuffed dull by dog claws long gone yet echoing louder than any explanation could manage right now.

Ethan blinked hard then nodded grimly—as if bracing himself for impact only visible to those who’d loved someone long enough their absence left fingerprints everywhere light touched afterward.

The silence stretched taut until Mark finally slumped against coat hooks overloaded with scarves nobody wore anymore since winters grew milder year after year—a living question mark wedged among relics belonging mostly to versions of ourselves we barely recognized these days either.

“Let’s sit down,” I suggested gently—even though sitting wouldn’t fix what broke nor stitch together decades vanished behind clouded eyes reflecting only blank uncertainty back at us both—but movement felt necessary all the same lest inertia swallow what little resolve remained upright after midnight revelations arrived sodden on front porches unwelcome yet undeniable nonetheless.

We shuffled into living room shadows pooling beside sofa cushions sagging where Mark used to fall asleep reading biographies upside-down because he claimed plot twists worked better that way (they didn’t).

He perched cautiously beside decorative pillows embroidered clumsily during last winter’s craft fair binge—the ones Sam teased mercilessly whenever she visited (“Still hanging onto Pinterest dreams?”)—and glanced around uncertain whether permission existed anymore for comfort built up over years spent loving carelessly then losing everything overnight without warning labels attached anywhere obvious.

Outside rain slowed until droplets ticked rhythmically atop skylight glass overhead—a metronome counting seconds lost forever somewhere between goodbye kisses forgotten completely and homecomings nobody rehearsed beforehand lest disappointment spoil endings not written yet either way regardless.

Mark cleared his throat nervously—voice catching rough against words still foreign tasting bitter-sweet along tongue edges unused recently except perhaps whispering apologies into darkness thick enough swallowing whole even best intentions left stranded roadside somewhere none dared revisit twice willingly unless absolutely forced otherwise by fate or foolish stubbornness combined equally potent cocktail brewed strongest when least expected generally speaking statistically anyway probably.

“I think… maybe you should call someone?” His gaze flickered pleading toward cell phone charging silently beside lamp base dust-moted golden halo circling ceramic cat figurine Ethan made Mother’s Day third grade (“It’s abstract!”) still tilting precariously because glue never set right despite best efforts applied liberally under adult supervision promised effective according package directions misleading optimistically sometimes unfortunately undeniably true always apparently universally applicable context dependent obviously so forth et cetera ad infinitum amen hallelujah goodnight sweet prince et al etcetera et cetera forever onward amen—

My thumb hovered over screen until Siri blinked awake expectant patient neutral (“How can I help you tonight Julia?”) while old grief swelled anew alongside hope ragged raw jagged bleeding sharp edges slicing deeper than any blade forged elsewhere ever managed previously successfully somehow miraculously impossibly heartbreakingly wonderfully terrifyingly real again unexpectedly inexplicably suddenly absolutely undeniably so—

And outside dawn threatened horizon pink-gray bruises promising nothing certain except more questions arriving soon eager hungry relentless insistent inevitable unstoppable always already almost here—

CHAPTER 4: Chapter 2: The Story Continues

I woke up to the sound of voices—low, careful, as if afraid to wake someone, but I was already awake. I’d slept in Mark’s old flannel on the living room couch, feet tangled in a throw blanket and heart pounding from restless dreams. The clock on the wall glowed 6:37 AM. Sunlight pressed through the curtains in thin stripes.

Through the haze of sleep and two days’ worth of adrenaline, I registered Ethan’s voice first—muffled urgency—and then Dr. Patel’s calm cadence replying from somewhere down the hall. It took me a moment to remember that yes, this was real; yes, Mark was back—or at least someone who looked exactly like him.

He’d spent the night in our guest room under a heap of navy sheets, door cracked so I could check every hour that he hadn’t vanished again. The police had come and gone after their perfunctory questions (“Are you sure it’s really him?” “Was he carrying anything unusual?”), leaving me with more doubts than answers and a business card for ‘Victim Services.’

Now Dr. Patel stood in our foyer with a battered medical bag slung over her shoulder and dark circles under her eyes—a house call on her day off, because she lived three blocks away and had delivered Ethan when he came two weeks early seventeen years ago.

I found them all gathered at the kitchen table: Ethan perched on a stool clutching his phone like an anchor, Dr. Patel unpacking instruments onto a tea towel patterned with faded lemons, and Mark—still my Mark on paper—sitting rigidly upright as if waiting for an interview.

“Julia,” Lina said softly when she saw me hovering by the doorway. “Did you get any rest?”

The question felt too complicated for words—I just nodded.

Mark glanced up with those same hazel eyes I’d memorized over twenty anniversaries but they flickered past me blankly before returning to study his hands. He wore Ethan’s old hoodie and sweatpants borrowed from my own bottom drawer; nothing fit quite right.

Dr. Patel gestured gently toward him without looking away from her blood pressure cuff. “Mark? Would it be okay if we asked you some questions now?”

He blinked once—deliberately—and nodded. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke: “Sure.”

Ethan looked at me then—just for a second—and there was something raw there that made my chest ache: relief warping into confusion, hope curdling into fear.

Lina began simply: name, date of birth (he got both right), address (blank stare), wife’s name (another blank). When she asked about children he paused so long even Ethan seemed to shrink inside himself before Mark shook his head apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to no one in particular.

Dr. Patel kept her tone light as she clipped a pulse oximeter onto his finger and wrapped Velcro around his arm. “That’s alright! We’re just getting some baseline information.” She jotted notes onto her iPad with quick strokes; I caught words like ‘retrograde amnesia?’ and ‘no visible trauma’ between sips of coffee cooling rapidly beside her elbow.

My mind drifted—again—to every true crime podcast Sam ever made me listen to while we folded laundry or walked along Sawmill Trail: people disappearing without explanation only to reappear changed or broken or never at all; families left piecing together fragments that didn’t fit anymore.

Lina ran through basic orientation questions next—the year (2022), current president (correct), hometown (“…I’m not sure”). Each answer landed heavy as stones between us all.

Then physical exams: flashlight beam across pupils (“Follow my finger… good”), reflex hammer tapping knees (“Normal response”), memory tests involving lists of numbers that evaporated almost instantly from Mark’s face.

“It feels,” he admitted haltingly after failing another recall prompt, “like trying to read through fog.”

Ethan let out an involuntary laugh—a brittle edge betraying nerves—and immediately turned it into a cough behind his fist.

We moved into the living room so Lina could run cognitive screens away from clattering dishes or Marjorie Blevins’ prying gaze outside our front window (she’d been out watering imaginary plants since dawn).

Mark sat awkwardly on our corduroy couch where only last month we’d watched Jeopardy together every Thursday night—the contestant categories still scrawled on our whiteboard by habit—but now he scanned each object as if cataloguing evidence at a crime scene: framed wedding photo (“That’s… us?”); dog-eared copy of Dune (“Do I like science fiction?”).

“You used to,” I said before thinking better of it.

He nodded absently but didn’t pick up the book; instead he traced patterns absentmindedly along one seam in the upholstery until Lina called him back for another test involving drawing intersecting pentagons on scrap paper scavenged from our recycling bin.

When she finished scribbling results she finally met my gaze—a look laced with concern camouflaged beneath professional calmness.

“Medically speaking,” she began quietly enough so only I would hear while Ethan loaded dirty mugs into the sink behind us, “there are several possibilities here—trauma-induced dissociative amnesia is one option; fugue state is another.” She hesitated just long enough for panic to wedge itself between my ribs again.

“There are organic causes we need to rule out too—a mild stroke wouldn’t always leave obvious signs externally but might affect memory centers…” She trailed off as Mark coughed quietly from across the room.

“We’ll do bloodwork today,” she added louder now for everyone else’s benefit. “And schedule imaging at St. Peter’s later this week just to be safe.”

Mark nodded as if agreeing politely about weather forecasts rather than brain scans.

A silence grew—the kind that fills spaces where routine should be but isn’t anymore.

Ethan cleared his throat too loudly and stood awkwardly near the fridge door until Lina smiled kindly at him.

“You doing okay?” she asked gently.

He shrugged one shoulder without meeting anyone’s eye.”Yeah.”

I tried not to watch Mark watching us—noticed how he tilted his head when Ethan spoke; how unfamiliar even their silences were together now.

After Lina packed up—promising updates soon—I followed her out onto the porch lined with spiderwebs nobody had swept since May.

She squeezed my hand hard enough it almost hurt.”Call anytime—even tonight if anything changes.”

Back inside I found Mark standing alone by our fireplace mantel staring intently at family photos arranged chronologically along its length—from wedding day sunbeams caught in tulle lace right up through Ethan losing teeth beside Mickey Mouse ears five summers ago.

His shoulders seemed smaller somehow beneath borrowed fleece.”Is this really all mine?” he asked softly—not quite believing either way.

I swallowed hard against tears threatening mutiny again.”It is.”

He touched one frame lightly—a gesture both tender and alien—and offered half a smile strange enough that grief curled cold inside me anew.

Outside Marjorie’s shadow lingered beneath rhododendrons while rumors probably unfurled already across neighborhood group chats:”Julia Reynolds’ husband came back—but something isn’t right.”

From somewhere deep within myself came an urge both desperate and determined:”You’re home now,” I said aloud—not entirely certain whether it was promise or plea.

But neither answer nor recognition came—instead only silence stretching thin between us while morning sunlight pooled around our feet like everything ordinary suddenly rendered unsteady by doubt.

And upstairs above it all lay two decades’ worth of memories waiting patiently for someone who might never return for them again.

CHAPTER 5: Snapshots and Blank Spaces

It’s funny what you notice about a person when you’re trying to remind them who they are. I never paid much attention to the way Mark used to sit—always cross-legged, always propped just so on the left side of the couch, feet tucked under him like a cat. But now he perches on the edge, knees forward, hands folded tight in his lap as if he might bolt at any moment.

The photo albums are stacked between us like bricks in an unfinished wall. The old ones smell faintly of mildew and dust; my fingertips come away gray from flipping through them earlier. I’d planned this all morning—laid out snacks (cheese cubes and apple slices), made tea for myself, poured him coffee before remembering he doesn’t drink it anymore. He pushed the mug aside with a polite smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

Now it’s late afternoon. Sunlight slants across the living room in golden stripes, catching motes of dust floating between us. Outside, someone is mowing their lawn; inside, silence stretches long and thin.

“Ready?” I ask, holding up the first album—a fat leather-bound one with our wedding photo stuck under plastic on the cover.

Mark gives me that same strained half-smile and nods.

I open to the first page: us twenty years ago at a beach in Oregon, my hair sun-bleached and wild around my shoulders, Mark grinning wide enough to show teeth. His arm drapes over my shoulder like it belongs there.

He leans forward dutifully. “That’s… Cannon Beach?” His voice lilts upward with uncertainty.

I nod encouragement. “Yeah! We went there for our honeymoon.” My own voice sounds too bright in my ears—like I’m talking to a child or a stranger at work.

He squints at himself—the younger self—then glances at me as if searching for clues. “Looks nice.”

We flip through page after page: birthdays with melting cakes; Christmases where Ethan is small enough to ride on Mark’s back; blurry selfies from road trips where we look tired but happy together. Each time I prompt him gently—remember this? Do you recognize that place? That sweater? That haircut?

He shakes his head every time, more apologetic than frustrated.

At one point he pauses over a picture of Ethan sitting cross-legged under last year’s Christmas tree—wrapping paper everywhere—and frowns softly. “He looks older now,” Mark says quietly.

“He grew three inches since then,” I say automatically. “His shoes barely fit anymore.”

Mark smiles again but there’s something hollow about it—a quick flash of sadness before he smooths it away with careful politeness.

I keep going because stopping feels worse—like letting go completely—and because hope is stubborn even when it hurts.

There are photos from camping trips where we huddle around smoky fires bundled in plaid flannel; shots from neighborhood barbecues where Sam photobombs us mid-chew; family reunions by Lake Chelan with cousins whose names have blurred for both of us over time.

“Who’s this?” Mark asks once, pointing at Aunt Brenda—a woman famous for her terrible potato salad and stories about haunted barns back east.

“That’s Brenda,” I say patiently, “your mom’s cousin.”

He nods as if filing away trivia instead of reclaiming lost ground.

At some point Ethan comes down from his room to refill his water bottle—a silent shadow passing behind us in socks and headphones—and gives me a look that says *still nothing?* before disappearing again without speaking. The house settles around us: fridge humming, floor creaking every now and then beneath old hardwood boards warped by years of Pacific Northwest rainstorms seeping into foundations not meant for so much dampness.

I close one album after another until only our most recent sits unopened: slim black covers embossed with gold letters reading REYNOLDS 2020-2022. Inside are photos taken during lockdown: sourdough disasters lining kitchen counters; Zoom calls with pixelated friends waving awkwardly into screens; Ethan asleep on textbooks during remote classes while Mark makes faces behind him.

“These are pretty recent,” I say quietly as I turn pages slowly—half-hoping something will click into place just because we were all trapped here together for so long those months blur into each other even for me sometimes—but Mark only watches politely again, like someone listening to stories about strangers’ lives at a party he doesn’t remember attending.

After an hour or two my optimism sags beneath dull fatigue—not just physical but emotional too—as if each unanswered question has worn grooves into my bones deeper than any sleepless night could manage alone.

Finally Mark sits back and rubs his forehead with thumb and forefinger—the gesture oddly unfamiliar coming from hands that have built shelves in this very room but now seem unsure what they’re supposed to do next.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly into the hush between mower passes outside our window. “It all feels… blank.”

A prickling sting rises behind my eyes but I force myself not to cry—not here—not again today—and instead reach out automatically toward him before catching myself mid-motion when he stiffens slightly beneath my hand hovering above his knee like some weird ghost limb uncertain whether it has permission anymore.

“It’s okay,” I whisper anyway because what else is there?

We sit quietly until hunger nudges me toward practicality—I offer dinner (takeout Thai again because neither of us feels up to cooking lately) and shuffle off toward the kitchen while Mark lingers surrounded by glossy reminders of everything missing inside his mind right now: laughter caught mid-shutter click; arguments faded by time rather than resolution; love letters tucked between receipts marking anniversary dinners neither of us can taste anymore without wondering who remembers whom better these days—the photos or ourselves?

Sam texts while curry simmers:

> how’d round 1 go w/ memory lane??

> u ok??

I stare at her message too long before typing back:

> no dice

> i’m… hanging in

She responds instantly:

> don’t let yourself drown trying 2 pull him out

> ur still here julia

> call if you need backup (or tequila)

By bedtime Mark is already upstairs reading—or pretending to read—the same book he started three nights ago but hasn’t cracked past chapter two yet because concentration slips through his fingers along with everything else lately. When I climb under cold sheets beside him later there is an ache deep inside—not sharp grief anymore but something duller and harder-won: resignation laced through hope refusing entirely to die even though common sense says maybe it should by now.

In darkness broken only by streetlight filtering through blinds I lie awake listening—to Mark breathing steady beside me (foreign rhythm against mattress springs), cars passing distant on wet roads outside (rain forecasted again tomorrow), memories looping soft as lullabies inside my skull where no camera ever went:

Us laughing over burnt toast.

Ethan splashing muddy footprints down hallways.

Mark singing off-key Sinatra while shaving Sunday mornings—

and none of these things belong fully anywhere except here now—invisible snapshots burned behind eyelids fighting sleep until dawn threatens new blank spaces waiting just beyond reach tomorrow morning once more—

Then downstairs—

a crash echoes sharply,

shattering silence

with sudden certainty

that whatever world we’ve fallen into isn’t done rearranging itself just yet.

CHAPTER 6: Chapter 2: The Story Continues

The toaster was broken again. The button wouldn’t stay down, which meant I had to stand there with a butter knife, pressing it in while the bread slowly browned and my right hand went numb. Mark used to fix things like this—he’d take the toaster apart at the kitchen table, screws rolling under the salt shaker, crumbs everywhere, cursing gently under his breath. He would always find some miraculous solution involving a paperclip or a dab of olive oil. Now the damn thing just sat there like a stubborn mule.

I stared at my reflection in the window above the sink: sleep-creased cheek, hair mashed to one side from where I’d tried to nap on the couch last night. Mark’s keys were still hanging on their hook by the back door—he hadn’t driven anywhere since he came home two days ago.

From upstairs came a rhythmic thumping: Mark pacing again, maybe? Or Ethan getting ready for school way too early? I glanced at my phone; 7:14 AM. Too early for either of them to be fully functional humans.

The toast popped up—half-burnt on one edge—and I scraped off the black with that same butter knife before slathering it with jam. Strawberry, Mark’s favorite. Or it used to be.

When he finally wandered into the kitchen—barefoot, hoodie zipped up over pajama pants—I watched him scan every surface like he was cataloguing an Airbnb listing.

He paused by the coffee maker and wrinkled his nose theatrically. “Is that…coffee?” He said it like someone might say ‘fermented cabbage’ or ‘sewer runoff.’

“Uh-huh,” I said carefully. “You want a cup?”

Mark shook his head so quickly that his hair flopped over his forehead—the familiar cowlick still refusing gravity after all these years. “No thanks.” His voice was polite but wary, as if he half-expected me to slip something nefarious into his mug.

“Well,” I offered him toast instead, holding out a slice balanced precariously on my palm.

He sniffed it experimentally before taking a bite and chewing in slow-motion thoughtfulness—a judge deliberating over evidence in court.

“Sweet,” he remarked finally, sounding surprised and vaguely disappointed.

“It’s strawberry jam,” I reminded him gently.

“Oh.” He set the toast down like it might bite back. “Do we have anything spicy?”

Spicy? That threw me off enough that my mouth hung open for half a second before closing itself with an audible click of teeth. Mark liked things bland—or had liked them bland—for as long as I’d known him; curry nights were always mild chicken tikka with extra yogurt on top for him and Ethan grumbling about ‘baby taste buds.’

“I can check,” I managed weakly.

He nodded and drifted toward the living room as if carried on an invisible tide of confusion—his own or mine, who could say?

Ethan barreled down then, backpack slung sideways across one shoulder and headphones already leaking muffled bass lines into our quiet house. He didn’t look at me; just plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and mumbled something that might’ve been ‘bye’ except it sounded more like ‘bruh.’ Then he froze mid-step when he saw Mark standing by the piano with both hands hovering over its keys—a man rediscovering fire or ice or music for maybe the first time ever.

Mark pressed one tentative key—a low D—and let it resonate through our cramped entryway until silence reclaimed everything else between us.

Ethan lingered in that silence for longer than usual; then darted out without another word, leaving behind only faint echoes of uncertainty and Axe body spray.

I wiped crumbs from my fingers onto my jeans and followed Mark into what used to be our sunroom but had lately become storage overflow: stacks of old board games teetering next to bins full of winter coats no one wore anymore; photo albums piled haphazardly atop dusty boxes labeled CHRISTMAS LIGHTS (2016).

He was running his hand along spines of books without reading any titles—just touching things absentmindedly while sunlight cut pale stripes across hardwood floors now scratched from years of rearranging furniture during spring cleans neither of us really wanted to do but did anyway because ‘that’s what adults do.’

“Anything look familiar?” My voice felt small against all this morning brightness—the world waking up around us when inside everything felt stuck in last Tuesday night’s shadowy confusion.

Mark turned toward me slowly—not hostile exactly but not quite present either—and shrugged helplessly. “Some things do,” he admitted after too long a pause. “But most don’t.”

I picked up one album from near the bottom—a navy blue binder bulging with decades-old photos held together by cracked plastic sleeves—and gestured toward our threadbare couch (the ugly floral pattern hidden beneath throws Sam insisted made us look bohemian-chic).

“Let’s try something?” I asked softly.

We sat close but not touching—not really—inches between us thickened by memory loss or maybe just fear that touch would make everything feel even stranger than words already had these past forty-eight hours since Detective Collins called from St Anthony’s ER asking if I’d come identify ‘my husband.’ As if I’d ever mistake those hands—even cold and slack—for anyone else’s in this world.

I flipped open to summer vacation photos: Ethan covered head-to-toe in sand at Cannon Beach; Mark holding him aloft against gray Oregon sky so wide you could fall right through it if you weren’t careful. There was one shot where they’d both been laughing—mouths open wide enough you could practically hear seagulls screeching overhead—but now Mark only squinted at himself as though peering through fogged glass instead of glossy print paper faded soft around edges by time alone.

“That’s…” He pointed at Ethan uncertainly then looked back at me for permission or guidance or rescue—I didn’t know which anymore.

“That’s us,” I supplied quietly.”Two summers ago.”

He nodded once—as though agreeing more out of politeness than recollection—and traced finger along edge where water damage blurred colors together near Ethan’s feet.”Feels weird,” he murmured.”Like looking through someone else’s scrapbook.”

I forced myself not to cry again—not here among dust motes dancing lazy circles in slanted sunbeams while neighborhood kids shrieked somewhere far away beyond backyard fences we’d painted together three Memorial Days ago when laughter still came easy as breathing air or boiling pasta water without burning it dry (which he’d done twice last month).

“You liked camping trips,” I tried next.”You always packed too many snacks—we joked about your secret stash under every seat cushion.”

Mark smiled reflexively but shook his head.”Sorry…I believe you.” And then softer:”It just isn’t there.”

We kept paging forward anyway: Halloween costumes (pirate/witch/vampire), first-day-of-school portraits (grudging grins), Christmas mornings spent unwrapping puzzles none of us finished before New Year’s resolution lists got lost behind refrigerator magnets shaped like lighthouses we’d never visited except once during that rainstorm trip where we got soaked walking back from dinner because someone forgot umbrellas again (him). Each picture met blankness behind his eyes—a polite emptiness painful only because I remembered how full those moments used to be for both of us together rather than just me alone carrying them now like groceries left too long in flimsy plastic bags threatening rupture any minute if handled wrong even once more today—

A knock interrupted—a quick rapping rhythm only Sam ever bothered using anymore unless she needed backup hauling garden mulch from her trunk again (“Julia! You home?”). She let herself inside without waiting for answer because locked doors were mostly theoretical here except when raccoons discovered compost bins twice last spring—

She swept into our sunroom trailing perfume clouds strong enough even Mark blinked twice—and fixed both of us with her best you-two-need-saving stare honed over fifteen years teaching fourth grade downtown plus three stints mediating PTA bake sale wars nobody actually won except Costco sheet cakes every single year since 2012—

Sam took stock instantly—the albums splayed out between us; awkward posture betraying nothing real comfort-wise despite months spent sharing couches after midnight movie marathons during snowstorms when highways shut down northbound entirely—

“So!” She clapped brisk hands together beside faded hydrangea bouquet drooping sadly in chipped vase leftover from somebody’s bridal shower five summers ago.”Memory lane detour?”

Mark attempted humor:”More like memory cul-de-sac.”

Sam laughed loud enough neighbors two houses down probably heard (and would ask about later).”Well—it’ll grow back or reroute eventually! Just don’t get stuck playing therapist forever, Jules.” She aimed this squarely at me while pretending otherwise.”You need air sometimes too—you know where my spare key is.”

She left after extracting promises neither one of us meant about coming over soon (‘for tacos’), dropping off freezer meals (‘in case kitchen appliances rebel’)—and hugging me hard enough ribs creaked warningly before letting go fast so tears couldn’t catch her either this early Wednesday morning—

After she left Mark retreated upstairs muttering something about headaches while jazz poured quietly from speakers he’d found yesterday afternoon digging through garage boxes marked GARAGE SALE OR BURN?. Strange syncopation filled each empty space left behind him: saxophone wailing unfamiliar notes until even walls seemed restless listening along unsure whether they belonged here anymore either—

And downstairs among fading photographs and unwashed mugs gathering rings atop old issues of The Atlantic no one read twice—I wondered what part exactly was supposed to come next when loving somebody became less about remembering everything perfectly than learning how much forgetting you could survive together before breaking completely apart—

Upstairs floorboards creaked beneath new footsteps above—heavy yet hesitant—the weight oddly different than twenty years’ worth should’ve sounded coming home again tonight…

CHAPTER 7: Unfamiliar Faces at the Breakfast Table

I woke up to the smell of burnt toast, which didn’t make sense because Mark was the only one who ever ruined bread in this house, and Mark—my Mark—hadn’t been home for weeks. Or, more accurately, he’d come back but left something essential behind. Himself.

There was a clatter from downstairs. I peeled myself off the pillow, squinting at the clock: 7:06 a.m. The spot beside me on the bed was empty, sheets smoothed with military precision. He’d never made the bed before either.

Ethan’s bedroom door was open a crack as I padded past it; his headphones hung over the edge of his unmade bed like a flag of surrender. Downstairs, sunlight sliced through the kitchen blinds in pale stripes. Mark stood at the counter with his back to me, rigid as a fence post. He wore one of Ethan’s old sweatshirts (inside out), and held a spatula midair like it might bite him.

The toaster choked out two blackened slices as I entered. Mark fished them out with fingers that didn’t seem to care about heat.

“Morning,” he said stiffly, not looking up.

I opened my mouth—habit wanted me to say “good morning,” but what came out instead was: “You’re burning it again.”

He glanced over his shoulder, face blank for half a second before arranging itself into something polite but unfamiliar. “Guess I am.” He dropped the charred bread onto a plate with an apologetic wince and reached for another slice from the bag.

In our first decade together, he’d claimed breakfast duty every Saturday—eggs over-easy for Ethan (a yolk like runny gold), rye toast for me (“Just warm it until it’s whispering”). The memory twinged sharp in my chest now; this new Mark seemed baffled by basic appliances.

He fumbled with the toaster settings while I filled the kettle. Silence ballooned between us—the kind that used to be comfortable background noise but now felt jagged-edged.

Ethan shuffled in wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a faded band tee two sizes too small. His hair stuck up at impossible angles; he’d always been slow to wake but today there was wariness under his drooping eyelids.

“Hey,” Ethan muttered, sliding into his usual chair—the one closest to the window—and scrolling aimlessly on his phone without looking up.

Mark hovered near him awkwardly before placing another round of doomed toast on Ethan’s plate. “Here you go,” he offered brightly—too brightly—and sat across from him instead of beside me like he always had before all this started unraveling.

Ethan eyed the offering like it might explode. “Uh… thanks.” He nudged it aside and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl instead.

Mark cleared his throat after an uncomfortable pause that seemed to last hours in miniature form. “So… uh… plans today?”

I poured tea into my mug and tried not to look at either of them directly; if I did, I might start screaming or laughing or crying—I wasn’t sure which would come first these days.

“School?” Ethan answered flatly, thumbs tapping against glass in quiet Morse code annoyance.

“Oh! Right.” Mark nodded so vigorously it looked painful. “Of course.”

The room filled with silence again except for boiling water rattling inside its stainless steel shell and Ethan’s restless foot bouncing against chair legs—a sound so familiar yet suddenly alien too because everything here felt slightly off-kilter now: crooked pictures on walls we’d hung together; mugs mismatched by accident rather than design; dust gathering where Mark used to wipe surfaces compulsively every Sunday morning while humming off-key Beatles songs under his breath.

I sat down opposite both of them and forced myself to sip hot tea even though my stomach roiled acid-sharp beneath my ribs.

“So…” Mark tried again after another failed attempt at small talk—his voice too loud for our little kitchen sanctuary. “Did you need help getting ready? With anything?”

Ethan finally looked up then—eyes flinty blue-grey just like mine but harder somehow lately—and cocked one eyebrow in silent challenge.

“I’m seventeen,” he said quietly but firmly—as if reminding both himself and this stranger pretending at fatherhood.

“Right,” Mark repeated softly—it sounded almost pained—but then brightened artificially once more: “Well maybe later we could… throw around a ball? Or whatever you usually do?”

The question floated there awkwardly between cereal boxes and wilting daffodils on our windowsill.

“We haven’t played catch since middle school,” Ethan mumbled without any venom—just weary resignation.

“Oh.” That single syllable landed heavy enough that even Toastgate receded into background static.

Mark busied himself fussing with napkins that didn’t need folding while I watched steam curl from my mug toward ceiling beams honey-stained by years of quiet mornings gone right.

“You okay driving yourself?” I asked Ethan gently—not trusting my own hands behind a wheel just yet when nerves buzzed so close beneath skin.

He shrugged without looking away from his phone screen—a text ping lighting up briefly (“Sam wants coffee after chem class”).

“I’ll walk,” he replied eventually—voice muffled by distance rather than volume—even though rain smeared streaks down glass outside already.

Mark stood abruptly then—as if remembering some lost instruction manual—and began clearing plates nobody had finished using unnecessarily careful movements.

“I can get that,” I murmured reflexively—but let him do it anyway because fighting over dirty dishes felt both pointless and dangerous right now.

Something clattered—a knife slipping sideways into sink with metallic echo louder than necessary—which startled all three of us simultaneously before dissolving back into hush again.

Outside somewhere further down our cul-de-sac Marjorie Blevins’ ancient labrador barked twice—the neighborhood alarm clock everyone pretended not to rely upon anymore since her husband died last winter—but otherwise nothing moved except shadows stretching long across kitchen tile as morning thickened toward day proper.

When Ethan finally got up—with bookbag slung carelessly over one shoulder—I caught his sleeve lightly just before he ducked out:

“Text me when you get there?”

He hesitated just long enough that guilt prickled sharp beneath my collarbone before nodding once—a quick jerky movement like swatting away gnats—and slipped outside without glancing back at either adult left behind inside fractured routines.

As soon as front door clicked shut behind him, Mark exhaled hard—as if holding breath through entire scene—and leaned heavily against countertop still sticky from orange marmalade spilled days ago now dried amber-hard along grout lines neither of us bothered scrubbing anymore.

“How old is he supposed to be again?” His voice broke brittle along edges—not quite joke nor confession nor plea—but something rawer wedged between those things we weren’t allowed naming aloud yet lest they shatter completely under pressure they couldn’t bear carrying alone much longer.

“He turned seventeen last week.” My answer tasted bitter even as words left lips because birthday candles sat unused atop fridge still waiting for tradition we never got around keeping this year—not when ghosts crowded rooms louder than laughter ever could fill void left gaping wide enough swallow whole house some nights when moonlight crept sly through curtains half-closed against watching world outside.

Mark chewed bottom lip thoughtfully—or nervously—it was getting harder telling difference anymore given how much about him had changed since coming home hollow-eyed four nights ago carrying strange cologne none of us recognized lingering faint under skin no matter how many showers took afterwards trying rinsing wrongness away drop by drop until pipes groaned protest deep inside walls older than marriage itself sometimes felt lately too fragile supporting weight secrets grown moldy dark corners mind nobody dared airing daylight yet except maybe Sam who promised swinging by later armed coffee sarcasm hugs rationed carefully lest unravel entirely before lunchtime rolled round once more trying normalcy routine pieced together best could manage hour-by-hour heartbeat-by-heartbeat stuttering fits starts stops false restarts all alike spinning compass needles refusing settle north no matter how steady hands tried steering course homeward bound or otherwise depending which version story trusted most depending day hour weather luck patience faith running low supplies thinner each passing dawn dusk cycle repeating endlessly same faces different masks same questions fewer answers each time asked hoping maybe next time miracle memory would slip back unnoticed fit seamlessly puzzle missing piece refusing click no matter force applied gentle persistent desperate alternately depending mood courage stubbornness hope blind or foolish or both tangled knots only love strong enough untangle someday maybe if lucky weather held steady nothing else broke meantime holding breaths counting seconds praying silently nobody noticed cracks widening wider every moment shared table burdened silence words unspoken heavier plates untouched growing cold gray morning light sharpening uncertainty sharper still waiting next disaster or revelation whichever chose arriving first uninvited unexpected unwelcome perhaps inevitable anyway despite best efforts denying truth staring straight between eyes every waking minute spent pretending otherwise simply easier surviving short term until longer term arrived bringing consequences neither prepared facing alone together apart simultaneously crumbling quietly inside familiar rooms haunted mostly memories longing peace impossible grasp somehow still reaching anyway reflexive habit refusing die easy deaths even when mercy kinder option given chance choosing instead stubborn hope flickering guttering candle stubbed windstorm raging outside doors locked bolted chained tight praying wind tired soon leaves something salvageable behind worth saving rebuilding anew brick mortar tears laughter forgiveness someday tomorrow next week year lifetime perhaps already spent searching answers impossible questions refuse yielding grace redemption happy endings fairy tales told children falling asleep safer dreams reality offers grownups stuck limbo waiting rescue arrival return resurrection rebirth whichever miracle granted passage freedom escape resolution closure peace simple mercy sleep respite relief however brief fleeting precious rare precious rare precious rare—

A knock rattled sharply against front door then startling both upright guilt shame fear mingling equal measure throats dry mouths wordless anticipation dread curiosity equal parts frozen halfway between flight fight collapse hope dread possibility rumor gossip news intrusion salvation lifeline thrown drowning sea uncertain futures mapped stars flickering faint overhead unseen hidden clouds rolling low horizon promising rain storms tempests cleansing renewal destruction all potentials suspended single heartbeat awaiting verdict fate delivered hand unseen neighbor friend enemy stranger beloved returning twice lost once found missing forever never really gone always present absence echoing footsteps hallways kitchens bedrooms hearts homes broken battered mending pieced patched persistent enduring despite everything regardless reason rhyme logic sense meaning purpose point reason explanation justification apology amends promises wishes prayers bargains sacrifices stories told retold relived rewritten remembered forgotten forgiven refused denied cherished grieved mourned released embraced surrendered reclaimed accepted finally truly wholly utterly completely transformed beginning end circle cycle spiral loop loop loop—

And suddenly nothing ordinary about breakfast table anymore except emptiness echoing where laughter ought have lived instead replaced cold porcelain cups cooling untouched next chapter calling insistently insatiably hungry answers none prepared giving just yet ready willing able risking asking after all what else left losing besides everything already gone slipping through fingers numb trembling uncertain shaking hoping wishing needing wanting fearing dreading loving missing loving missing loving missing loving—

The knock came again louder sharper final undeniable demanding response reply reckoning reckoning reckoning—

CHAPTER 8: ‘A Birthday Unremembered’

The sun was already sliding down behind the ridge of fir trees by the time I found myself standing in the baking aisle at Taylor’s Market, staring blankly at rows of cake mixes. Chocolate fudge, triple chocolate, devil’s food—too many kinds for a woman whose mind was elsewhere. Ethan had always liked confetti cake when he was little, but last year he’d scoffed and said it was too childish now. Seventeen wasn’t a confetti kind of age.

I fished my phone out of my jacket pocket to check the time: 5:13. The group text with Ethan and Mark sat unopened. I opened it anyway, scrolling up to this morning’s messages.

Ethan (8:27am): “Don’t forget dinner! Pepperoni please.”

Me (8:29am): “Wouldn’t dream of it, birthday boy.”

Mark never replied.

I thumbed a devil’s food box into my cart and grabbed two tubs of white frosting as an afterthought—homemade would take too long, and anyway I didn’t have the energy for sifting powdered sugar right now.

Outside in the parking lot, dusk pressed in thick and heavy. My car beeped when I hit unlock; headlights flickered on like startled eyes. For a second I stood with one hand on the door handle, just breathing in cold air that smelled like wet pavement and exhaust and pine needles crushed underfoot somewhere nearby. Seventeen years old today—God. Where did all those birthdays go?

By six-thirty I’d iced the cake (badly), set out paper plates with little gold flecks around their rims, and arranged candles into a lopsided seventeen across the top. In our kitchen—a place where muscle memory took over—I realized how quiet everything felt without Mark humming or calling from his office about which knife he could use for onions.

He wandered in while I was rinsing strawberries at the sink. He wore jeans that sagged oddly on his hips and an old work shirt from some long-forgotten project—the sleeves rolled up wrong so one arm looked bunched at the elbow.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Smells good.”

“It’s boxed.” My voice came out sharper than intended.

He hesitated near the table like someone arriving at a party by mistake. “I uh… tried to help Ethan with something earlier but…he left.” His face went slack for a moment; then he shrugged apologetically.

“He’s upstairs,” I said softly. “Probably gaming before dinner.”

Mark nodded like that explained everything about teenage boys—which maybe it did—but there was no recognition in his posture or his tone that this night should mean more than pizza and store-bought cake.

A few minutes later Ethan appeared in sweatpants and socks with holes in both heels, slumping onto a kitchen stool as if gravity worked differently on him tonight.

“Hey Dad,” he mumbled without looking up from his phone screen.

Mark smiled—too big, too eager—and reached awkwardly across to ruffle Ethan’s hair; Ethan ducked away almost instantly, cheeks coloring under freckles inherited from me.

“Pizza’ll be here soon,” I announced brightly, forcing cheerfulness into every syllable until it tasted metallic on my tongue.

We ate together at our battered oak table—the same table Mark once refinished during another difficult winter when money was tight but hope wasn’t yet worn through at the edges. The conversation sputtered along:

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

“Nope.”

Every attempt slid off slick surfaces until we gave up entirely; only chewing and swallowing filled gaps where laughter should have been.

When Mark excused himself to refill his water glass (the third time since sitting down), Ethan leaned across toward me so quietly that even our ancient fridge couldn’t cover him whispering:

“He didn’t say anything about my birthday.”

It landed between us like a dropped plate—not shattering loudly but leaving pieces you could step on later by accident.

“I know,” I whispered back because what else could I offer?

After dinner we lit candles anyway—because rituals matter even when they’re hollow—and sang happy birthday off-key together while smoke curled lazily toward popcorn ceilings stained faint yellow from years’ worth of Sunday pancakes gone slightly awry.

Ethan made one wish (eyes squeezed shut so hard you’d think wishing still worked) then blew them out fast enough to make all seventeen gutter at once; wax dripped onto chocolate icing while Mark clapped belatedly as if remembering applause belonged here somewhere among these scraps of tradition.

Presents waited under an afghan on the couch—a new wireless headset tucked beside two gift cards wrapped together with ribbon scavenged from last year’s stash—but Mark watched as though observing someone else’s family through double-paned glass: polite nods, careful smiles stretched thin over confusion he couldn’t quite hide whenever attention shifted his way.

Later still—when dishwasher hummed its tired lullaby—I found myself folding laundry alone atop our bedspread striped blue-and-white like summer deck chairs we never used anymore because summers kept slipping away unnoticed between work emails and mortgage payments due next week instead of next month. Socks paired themselves automatically while outside wind rattled loose gutters against siding needing paint again this spring if only someone remembered which shade we used last time…

Downstairs: muffled voices—Ethan talking low into his headset (“Nah dude…it’s whatever…yeah just family stuff”) while Mark paced circles around living room coffee table tracing fingerprints left by mugs nobody ever wiped clean properly except me—

My phone buzzed again: Sam checking in—

Sam: “How’d it go? Survive?”

Me: “Barely.”

She sent back three skull emojis followed by: “Wine tomorrow?”

I typed yes before noticing movement reflected dimly behind me in bedroom window glass—a shape hovering uncertainly outside our door frame—

Mark paused there holding one sock balled tight inside another as if unsure whether to hand it over or apologize simply for existing within reach—

“I’m sorry,” he said finally—not loud but solid enough to land heavily between us—”I forgot something important tonight…I just…I can’t remember what…”

He blinked twice slow—as if trying to summon meaning from words everyone else took for granted—and let both socks tumble gently onto folded shirts atop our bedspread before stepping backward into hallway shadows flickering blue with television light below stairs—

From somewhere deep inside came a sharp ache not unlike hunger after skipping meals all day—familiar yet impossible to satisfy now that what you want most isn’t coming back no matter how much you wait or pretend otherwise—

Outside wind picked up again carrying distant laughter through open windows next door where Marjorie Blevins probably poured herself another mugful of gossip disguised as chamomile tea—and for one wild second I wondered what she’d say tomorrow about families who forgot their own children’s birthdays right under their noses—

But before dread could settle fully around me—I heard footsteps pause halfway down creaking steps—and realized neither forgiveness nor forgetting would come easily tonight—or any night soon—so long as none of us really knew who we were supposed to be anymore.

CHAPTER 9: Unraveling in Session

The therapy office smelled like lemon-scented wipes and the faintest trace of old coffee. Julia sat perched on the edge of a navy-blue armchair, knees pressed together so tightly her jeans pinched at the seams. A notepad rested in her lap, blank except for an anxious doodle in one corner—a lopsided daisy, picked at during the intake forms.

Across from her, Mark slouched into the other chair. He’d chosen it deliberately, after circling the room once with that restless energy she still couldn’t reconcile with her husband’s usual calm. His hands worried at his wedding ring—off, on, off again—until Dr. Patel coughed politely.

“Thank you both for coming,” Dr. Patel said, folding herself onto a rolling stool between them. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum; Julia counted three scuffs along one sole. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Mark offered a polite half-smile—the kind he gave to strangers at cash registers or neighbors passing by with their dogs—and Julia felt something in her chest crumple.

She tried to focus on Dr. Patel’s voice as she explained how today would work: open-ended questions, ground rules about listening without interrupting, no pressure to perform or pretend everything was fine.

Julia nodded along like a diligent student while Mark picked at a bit of lint on his pant leg.

“So,” Dr. Patel began gently, “let’s start simple. How are you both feeling… right now?”

Mark looked at Julia first—another new habit; he seemed to seek permission for everything now—and then shrugged.

“I’m… here,” he said finally. “A little lost.”

Julia surprised herself by laughing—a short, sharp sound that bounced off the beige walls and made all three of them blink.

“Sorry,” she murmured into her sleeve.

“No need to apologize,” Dr. Patel said softly.

But Mark frowned like he was trying to solve an equation with too many variables and not enough information. “Is that wrong?” he asked quietly.

“No!” Julia blurted out, heart thudding harder than it should’ve for such a mundane exchange. “It’s not wrong.” She willed herself to keep talking—to fill up the space before it turned cold again—but nothing came out except another thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Dr. Patel waited until even the clock ticking above her head felt thunderous before continuing: “Julia? Your turn.”

How did she feel? She wanted to say adrift or exhausted or maybe just angry—though anger felt dangerous in this room where everyone tiptoed around invisible tripwires—but what slipped out instead was: “I feel… tired.”

That word landed between them like a stone dropped into water: small ripples spreading outward in every direction.

Dr. Patel nodded as if that made perfect sense; maybe it did.

They sat there breathing together for another moment—three separate rhythms overlapping uneasily—before Dr. Patel cleared her throat again and leaned forward slightly.

“Mark,” she said kindly but firmly, “do you remember anything about your life before you disappeared?”

Julia watched him closely—not because she expected some sudden revelation (she’d stopped hoping for miracles weeks ago), but because sometimes he’d furrow his brow and squint like someone trying to see through fogged glass, and for just a heartbeat she could almost believe he was about to break through.

Now he only shook his head slowly: no hesitation this time; no searching glances toward Julia as though waiting for clues or cues or context.

“It’s all blank,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes I… I get flashes? But they’re more like stories I heard secondhand than memories I lived.” His voice cracked on lived and Julia winced involuntarily—wondering if Dr. Patel noticed how tightly she’d started gripping her pen again.

Ethan would have hated this silence most of all—the way words dangled unfinished in midair—but Ethan wasn’t here; Ethan had declared family therapy ‘the worst idea ever’ and stomped up to his bedroom with headphones jammed over his ears as if determined not to hear any part of their unraveling lives downstairs.

Dr. Patel jotted something down—a smooth flick of pen across paper—and then looked back up with practiced warmth that almost masked fatigue around her eyes.

“What about home?” she prompted gently toward Mark again. “Anything familiar?”

He hesitated longer this time—the pause stretching so far past comfort that Julia nearly answered for him out of reflex—but finally shook his head once more:

“The house looks nice—I mean… It looks well cared-for.” He glanced sideways at Julia apologetically—as if complimenting their shared home required permission too now—then added awkwardly: “But none of it feels mine.”

Something inside Julia sagged; even furniture could betray you apparently—all those years spent arguing over paint colors and shelving arrangements meant nothing now except reminders of absence wearing familiar skin.

Dr. Patel shifted gears without missing a beat: “Let’s talk about day-to-day things.” She smiled reassuringly when neither responded right away—which seemed unfair somehow (shouldn’t there be an easier answer?)—and continued anyway: “Routines can anchor us when memory fails.”

Mark stared down at his knees while picking absently at another loose thread near his cuff—a nervous tic new enough that even after weeks it startled Julia every time—and muttered:

“I don’t really know what my routines were supposed to be.” He managed an embarrassed chuckle that fizzled out quickly under the weight of attention in the room.

“I wake up early because… well…” He trailed off sheepishly before admitting: “…because I googled ‘how do married men spend mornings.'” The corners of his mouth twitched uncertainly upward but fell flat when neither woman laughed.

Julia swallowed hard against tears prickling behind her eyelids; part mortification—for both their sakes—and part sorrow so deep it tasted metallic.

“I used to make coffee first thing,” Mark went on gamely after clearing his throat twice too many times.

“You hate drip coffee,” Julia whispered suddenly.

He blinked at her as though learning this fact about himself for the very first time.

“You always insisted on French press—even bought that ridiculous grinder from Seattle.”

She could hear Ethan’s voice echoing from some brighter past year (“Dad treats making coffee like surgery”) but kept quiet while Mark digested this trivia about someone else’s preferences mapped onto himself.

“Did I?” He sounded genuinely curious rather than defensive—or maybe simply lost—and reached automatically toward where a mug might be if they were anywhere else but here.

For one wild second Julia wanted desperately to conjure up a cup from thin air just so they’d have something tangible between them besides empty history.

Dr. Patel let silence settle before nudging forward:

“Maybe we can try building new routines together?”

There it was—that hopeful note people kept offering as though optimism alone could refill twenty years’ worth of inside jokes and private shorthand and knowing glances exchanged across crowded rooms.

Julia forced herself upright in her chair until old vertebrae protested (“Good posture shows engagement!” Sam had texted last night)—but all she managed was another brittle smile directed somewhere near Dr. Patel’s left shoulder.

She heard herself say yes before meaning caught up—a reflexive politeness drilled deeper than grief or fury could reach these days.

Mark nodded too—even quicker—as though agreeing faster might make agreement real enough to matter outside these four walls scented faintly with bleach and resignation.

Dr. Patel scribbled something else down—they never got to see what therapists wrote during sessions; maybe secrets stacked neatly behind patient names—and suggested gently:

“How about planning one small thing together tonight? Something simple.”

A dozen possible answers flashed through Julia’s mind—all equally hollow:

Movie night? Too fraught; every film risked reminding them who they weren’t anymore.

Board games? The last time they’d played Monopoly ended with Ethan storming off over Park Place drama nobody remembered afterward except as proof they’d once argued over trivial things instead of existential ones.

Takeout sushi? Mark still hadn’t figured out chopsticks—or whether he’d ever liked eel rolls in any lifetime prior—which felt symbolic somehow (but also absurd).

In the end she settled on honesty because lying required energy she didn’t have left:

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended but truer too—which seemed fair currency here among strangers wearing familiar faces.

Mark reached toward her hand—not quite touching; hovering close enough she could feel heat radiating from knuckles gone pale under fluorescent lights—and said softly,

“We’ll figure something out?”

It sounded more question than promise—but hope clung stubbornly anyway beneath layers of confusion neither knew how to peel away yet.

As they gathered themselves up—awkward thank-yous traded for appointment cards printed on heavy cardstock—Julia caught sight of dust motes drifting lazily through late-afternoon sun slanting across faded carpet squares by the doorframe.

Outside rain tapped impatient fingers against window glass while Mark fumbled keys twice trying doors he’d unlocked daily without thinking only months earlier.

On their way out past reception Marjorie Blevins loitered beside ficus leaves looking suspiciously alive despite decades indoors; Marjorie arched one penciled brow high above wire-rimmed glasses when their paths crossed,

“Well well! Fancy seeing you two here.”

Her tone oozed curiosity sharper than gossip blogs (“Therapy must mean trouble!” always lurking unsaid) but today even scandal lacked its usual flavor—

Before either Reynolds could muster a reply Marjorie leaned closer,

“You know people are saying all sorts about what happened…”

She winked theatrically,

“But secrets never stay buried long around here.”

Rain drummed harder overhead as Mark stared blankly past Marjorie into gray clouds piling over fir trees;

Julia felt chill spider down spine colder than water pooling beneath windshield wipers stuck mid-swipe—

Whatever pieces they tried fitting back together tonight,

she knew some cracks would only widen

before anything healed—

and outside,

the town waited hungrily

for answers neither had found yet

CHAPTER 10: The Diagnosis That Wasn’t

I’d always thought doctor’s offices were supposed to smell antiseptic, sharp and clean. But Dr. Patel’s exam room was tinged with something warmer—maybe lavender from the plug-in on her desk, maybe the faint ghost of someone else’s perfume. I sat in a vinyl chair, picking at a crack in the seat cushion with my thumbnail, while Mark stared at his shoes and Dr. Patel tapped quietly on her laptop.

The clock ticked so loudly it sounded fake. Mark glanced up at it every thirty seconds or so, as if time might speed up if he willed it hard enough.

“Okay,” Dr. Patel said finally, shutting her laptop with a soft click that felt like a gavel coming down. “Thank you both for being patient.”

She looked tired—her ponytail a little frayed, glasses slipping down her nose. I tried to find meaning in the lines around her mouth but all I saw was concern and fatigue.

“So,” she began slowly, folding her hands together like she was about to pray instead of diagnose, “we’ve run all the tests we can run here—CT scans, bloodwork, EEGs… You name it.” She offered a smile meant to be reassuring; it didn’t quite land.

Mark nodded once. He hadn’t said much since we came in except to ask where the bathroom was. His wedding ring glinted on his finger—the only part of him that looked familiar right now.

“And?” My voice sounded brittle even to me.

Dr. Patel took off her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her blouse before answering—a stall tactic if ever there was one.

“There’s nothing physically wrong that would explain Mark’s memory loss.” She set the glasses back on and met my eyes directly this time. “No tumors or lesions or infections—his scans are clear.”

The word ‘clear’ landed like an accusation instead of relief.

“But he doesn’t remember anything,” I blurted out, louder than intended. The nurse behind the door probably heard me; maybe half the waiting room did too.

“I know.” Dr. Patel kept her tone gentle but firm—as if she’d rehearsed this for difficult families before us, countless times over years of bad news delivered under flickering fluorescent lights.

“Could it still be… trauma? Like PTSD?” Mark asked quietly, as though suggesting someone else entirely might have been traumatized.

“It could be dissociative amnesia,” Dr. Patel allowed after a pause long enough for me to count four more ticks from that infernal clock. “But usually those cases follow severe psychological stress—and often patients retain some fragments or emotional memories even when details are missing.”

Mark just shook his head minutely—not in disagreement but uncertainty.

“So what do we do?” My words tumbled out clumsy and desperate; I hated how raw they sounded in front of this woman who held our life between two pages of lab results and an empty checklist box labeled ‘diagnosis.’

“For now… counseling is our best option.” Dr. Patel closed Mark’s folder with finality—a soundless verdict echoing through my chest cavity anyway.

Mark let out a breath he’d clearly been holding; his shoulders slumped forward as if gravity had found new purchase in his bones.

“We’ll refer you to a specialist up at University Hospital,” Dr. Patel continued softly, “but sometimes… these things resolve slowly over time—or not at all.”

Not at all hung between us like fog refusing to lift from riverbanks after sunrise.

I reached for Mark’s hand automatically; he let me take it but didn’t squeeze back—a gesture performed by muscle memory alone rather than love or recognition.

We thanked Dr. Patel because politeness is reflexive when you’ve run out of hope but haven’t figured out what replaces it yet.

___

Outside in the parking lot, rain pooled under our tires—more drizzle than storm but enough to soak through my cardigan sleeves while I fished for keys inside my bottomless bag of receipts and old gum wrappers.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said suddenly beside me—not looking at me but somewhere past my shoulder where moss crept over curbsides and dandelions burst through cracks no matter how many times they got sprayed by city maintenance crews (or by him? Had he ever actually done yard work?).

I unlocked the car without answering because what could I say? Sorry you don’t remember your wife? Sorry neither science nor God seems interested?

The drive home stretched longer than usual; every stoplight lingered red an extra beat just to spite us.

___

At home Sam had texted: *How did it go???* Three question marks because she knew better than most how badly I wanted answers today—not hope or reassurance or mystical platitudes, just something concrete I could grip tighter than my own spiraling thoughts.

*No answers,* I typed back before tossing my phone onto the couch where last night’s laundry waited folded but not put away (shirts stacked unevenly like failed origami cranes). The house smelled faintly like lemon cleaner overlaying old coffee grounds—domestic comfort mingled with defeatism heavy as wet wool socks left too long near the heater vent.

Mark wandered into the kitchen muttering about making tea—he used chamomile instead of Earl Grey this time because apparently whatever part of him remembered preferences had gone missing along with everything else important about us.

He didn’t ask about Ethan—that hurt more than anything else so far: twenty years raising a son together erased from existence while loose change collected dust inside forgotten jars atop bookshelves he must have dusted himself once upon another lifetime ago.

A mug thudded onto granite counter harder than necessary; tea bag string draped limply over its rim.

“You want some?” His voice held polite distance—the kind people use when offering sugar packets across diner booths rather than inside their own kitchens.

“No thanks.” My throat stung unexpectedly; tears threatened but refused actual escape.

He sipped without comment while rain traced trails down window glass behind him—a living still life painted by melancholy itself.

After dinner (pizza delivery again—I couldn’t cook tonight), Ethan retreated upstairs early claiming homework overload though really he just wanted out from under silence heavy enough to crush adolescent bravado flat as pancakes Sunday mornings used to be reserved for.

I washed plates mechanically until dish soap made rainbow patterns swirling above chipped crockery then gave up halfway through drying rack duty; fatigue pressed between shoulder blades insistent as grief refusing surrender.

___

Later—when shadows stretched long across living room carpet—I pulled an afghan over knees curled beneath me on couch while scrolling social media feeds full of engagement photos and vacation reels: other people moving forward unencumbered by mysteries medical textbooks failed spectacularly at solving.

A knock startled me upright—it was Harper Lee Chang dropping off Ethan’s water bottle left behind during last week’s study group debacle (“Tell him next time not every math problem needs snacks shaped like Star Wars characters”). Her hair stuck damply against forehead under bike helmet streaked with road grit; she handed over bottle wrapped snug in paper towel printed with flamingos wearing party hats (“From Marjorie next door,” Harper stage-whispered).

“How’re you holding up?” She asked softly once helmet came off—voice pitched low enough not even nosy neighbors peeking through blinds could overhear sadness unraveling itself thread by thread tonight alone among company masquerading as community support systems.

“Honestly?” The word tasted sour—the truth an open wound pulsing fresh beneath bandages barely holding together anymore.

She nodded sympathetically then shared how after losing her dad two years ago nothing anyone said helped—not casseroles dropped off anonymously nor well-meaning Instagram DMs full of hearts—but weirdly sometimes strangers told stories that stuck anyway (“One lady swore foxes visiting gardens meant lost loved ones saying hi from wherever they ended up”).

I laughed despite myself—sharp edge dulling momentarily against shared absurdity until ache returned doubled for having laughed at all when nothing felt funny anymore except maybe cosmic irony playing tricks too elaborate for mere mortals down here tethered by dirty dishes and overdue bills alike regardless whether memory stayed loyal or not.

Harper squeezed my arm gently before leaving into drizzle thickening outside streetlamp glow (“Text anytime—even weird hours—I won’t judge”).

When door clicked shut behind her hush settled deeper somehow: rain against shingles steady rhythm keeping beat no diagnosis could interrupt now no matter how many specialists lined up promising certainty tomorrow morning or next year or never again depending which side belief fell on any given sleepless night ahead—

And upstairs Mark lay awake too—I could feel absence radiating through floorboards even if presence filled space beside me unmistakably changed forever—

What happens when normal isn’t coming back?

I closed my eyes tight wishing darkness would answer because nobody else seemed willing anymore—not doctors not neighbors not even God herself hiding tonight beyond clouds refusing explanation for why one life unraveled completely while others moved forward undisturbed just past cul-de-sac curve—

Tomorrow we’d try again anyway because what else do you do when there are no answers left except keep going blindly hoping some piece falls into place accidentally if only you pretend hard enough long enough until pretending becomes real—or real becomes irrelevant—

Or maybe someone new emerges from fog altogether,

and you have no choice but to learn loving them anyway

before memory makes its way home—or doesn’t,

and leaves you stranded right here,

waiting,

still counting heartbeats ticking far too loud

in rooms that don’t feel quite yours anymore

no matter how carefully you tuck blankets around yourself each night,

listening for footsteps that may never sound familiar again.

CHAPTER 11: Chapter 2: The Story Continues

On Sunday morning, Mark stood in the kitchen in one of my aprons, pouring boiling water over a teabag with the delicate concentration of a bomb defuser. The apron was the one I always wore for banana bread—yellow with faded sunflowers and a brownish stain from Ethan’s science project three years ago. It swamped Mark’s frame, which looked thinner than I remembered. Or maybe he’d always been this slight, and I was just noticing now that everything about him felt off.

He glanced up as I shuffled in, hair matted to my cheek and eyes sticky from too little sleep. “Tea?” he offered, holding out the mug as if it were peace itself.

I took it because I didn’t know what else to do. His fingers brushed mine: cold and unfamiliar.

The silence hung there, heavier than ever. He tried a smile—tight at the corners—and gestured at the toast cooling on a rack by the stove. “I couldn’t find jam.”

“Middle shelf of the fridge,” I said automatically.

“Oh.” He opened it and peered in like he was surveying foreign territory—scanning each item before finally extracting the raspberry preserves with both hands, triumphant as an archaeologist dusting off an artifact.

I pressed my palm into my eye socket until stars danced behind my lids. This is what intimacy had become: instructions on where we keep the jam.

Ethan thumped down the stairs then—a hurricane of deodorant and late adolescence—pausing when he saw us assembled like strangers at breakfast. He didn’t say anything; just nodded curtly at his father and went straight for cereal without even glancing up.

Mark watched him move around the kitchen with that same lost expression he wore everywhere now—the haunted look of someone whose dreams spill over into daylight hours.

“So,” Mark ventured, “how… how did you two meet? Me and you?”

It shouldn’t have surprised me anymore, but it did—a tiny punch below my ribs every time he revealed another blank spot where our life together should be. My voice came out thin: “College orientation scavenger hunt. You asked if I wanted to help you find something called ‘the sacred stapler.'”

A flicker crossed his face—hopeful recognition—but then nothing landed behind his eyes except polite interest.

“That sounds fun,” he said carefully, like someone trying not to step on broken glass.

Ethan snorted milk through his nose but didn’t look up from his phone.

After breakfast Mark retreated upstairs with some excuse about needing a shower—even though he’d already taken one—and Ethan finally gave me full eye contact across the table for half a second before looking away again.

“You’re not really going along with all this memory loss crap, are you?” His tone was barbed but brittle underneath—the sound of seventeen-year-old bravado barely hiding panic.

My hands curled tight around my mug; knuckles pale against chipped ceramic. “What choice do we have?”

Ethan stabbed soggy flakes with unnecessary force. “You could make him leave.”

“He’s your father.”

He barked out a laugh so sharp it startled me—a single jagged syllable that echoed off tile and glassware alike. Then his face shuttered closed again; whatever else he might’ve said got swallowed whole by cereal mush and shame.

The day rolled forward anyway because days don’t care whether or not your husband remembers your middle name or how you take your coffee or why Saturday mornings used to mean pancakes in bed while Ethan watched cartoons between us under mismatched quilts.

By noon Mark was gone—not vanished this time, just wandered off down our block without saying where he was headed or when (if?) he’d return. For all I knew he’d walked right past Marjorie Blevins’ hydrangeas without remembering she once brought us cookies after Ethan’s chickenpox or that she’d caught me ugly-crying on her porch last week when all this started falling apart.

I vacuumed furiously—a pointless war against cat hair under sofas—and texted Sam twice before deleting both messages unsent because how many times can you type “Help” before it loses all meaning?

When Mark finally returned (2:38 p.m., according to our smart doorbell), his sneakers were muddy and there were pine needles stuck in his cuffs. He paused in front of our wedding photos lined up along the entryway console; stared at them long enough that part of me wondered if recognition might snap suddenly back into place like a switch being flipped in an old breaker box somewhere deep inside him.

But no switch flipped—just another polite nod as if admiring some stranger’s vacation shots at an open house tour.

Later Sam swung by unannounced (“I brought scones!”) but mostly hovered at arm’s length from Mark while peppering him with small talk: weather updates, local politics scandals involving missing library funds (“Can you believe Gary?! Always seemed so honest!”), what Netflix shows people were obsessed about lately (“Julia won’t watch anything unless there’s subtitles”). She kept looking over at me sideways—as if checking for signs I’d been body-snatched too—but didn’t press beyond surface-level cheerfulness until Mark excused himself upstairs “to try reading.”

The moment we heard floorboards creak overhead Sam hissed quietly across her tea mug: “You okay?”

“No,” I whispered back so fiercely it surprised even me—and maybe her too because she reached over instantly to squeeze my wrist hard enough to leave marks from her rings embedded on my skin for minutes afterwards.

We sat like that a long time listening to wind rattle window screens loose above us; sunlight slanting gold across piles of unopened mail neither of us dared sort through yet (“Bills can wait,” Sam declared).

Eventually she left after making sure I’d promised not to Google any more rare brain disorders tonight (“Seriously! Step away from WebMD!”), leaving only her perfume lingering near our coat hooks as proof she’d ever been real amid so much unreality crowding out all sense these days had edges anymore.

That night dinner was quiet except for forks scraping plates—spaghetti clumping together because I’d forgotten oil in the pot again—and afterwards Mark insisted on helping clear dishes even though last week he’d loaded spoons upside-down in the dishwasher tray (“Force of habit,” he’d claimed). Now every movement seemed measured out by some invisible metronome ticking away inside him—deliberate but hollow; present but never truly here.

At bedtime I lay awake tracing cracks spider-webbing across plaster above our headboard—the ones we’d meant to fix last spring when life still made sense—and tried not to replay old laughter echoing faintly beneath new silence.

Mark turned onto his side beside me (or rather beside whoever I’ve become since all this began), voice muffled against pillowcase cotton: “I’m sorry I’m…like this.”

And for one wild second I almost told him about everything he’d forgotten—the way rain sounded on our first apartment’s tin roof or how we once drove hours just chasing northern lights that never showed—but instead found myself whispering,

“It’s okay,” even though neither one of us believed it.

Outside somewhere far off coyotes yipped under moonlight through cedar trees and Ethan’s bedroom door clicked softly shut; tomorrow would come anyway whether we liked it or not.

And still—I couldn’t shake this feeling twisting low inside me:

What if normal wasn’t coming back?

What if *he* wasn’t either?

CHAPTER 12: Ghosts in Our Bed

The bell above the door at Cedar Cup clanged, a little too enthusiastic for the hour. I shuffled in, blinking away drizzle and a headache that felt like it was squeezing my eyeballs from behind. The place smelled like wet wool, cinnamon rolls, and something floral—probably whatever candle Harper Lee Chang had burning near the pastry case.

She glanced up from her post at the espresso machine. “Julia,” she called, her voice easy as always, even if her hair was pinned into a bun that said ‘I’ve been up since five.’ “You look like you need caffeine and possibly an exorcism.”

I gave what passed for a smile lately. “Let’s start with caffeine. If that doesn’t work…well.” I trailed off.

Harper grinned and pointed at my usual stool by the window. There was already a mug waiting there—a little chipped around the rim, but I liked it because it fit my hands just right. She slid over a scone wrapped in wax paper. “On the house,” she said quietly.

“I can pay—” But she waved me off before I finished.

Outside, rain threaded down in silver lines between parked cars and sidewalk planters overflowing with petunias on their last legs. Inside: warmth, soft jazz humming under conversation, people hunched over laptops or gossiping about city council elections or Mr. Franklin’s runaway poodle.

I tried to focus on those things—the ordinary world—but all I could see was Mark’s side of our bed this morning: still perfectly smooth except for where I’d curled myself around his pillow after he left early for yet another doctor’s appointment he wouldn’t remember later.

Harper set down beside me with her own cup—something pale green that steamed gently—and plopped into the chair across from mine instead of disappearing behind the counter like usual.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just nudged my scone closer until crumbs spilled onto my jeans.

“So,” she said finally, studying her mug as though divining secrets from its foam art. “How are you holding up?” Her tone wasn’t pitying; more like someone asking how long until the next bus arrives on a freezing night: practical curiosity mixed with patience.

“I don’t know.” My throat closed tight around everything else I wanted to say—the jagged stuff about waking up every morning hoping Mark would suddenly snap back into himself; about how sometimes I wanted to shake him just to see if any memories would fall out; about Ethan retreating further behind his headphones every day; about missing things so small they seemed ridiculous when spoken aloud—a particular laugh during sitcom reruns, the way Mark used to line up his shoes by color.

Harper nodded slowly as if she’d heard all of it anyway.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked softly.

I shrugged—what did it matter anymore?

She looked past me out through rain-streaked glass where two crows huddled together atop a parking meter. “When my mom got sick—that last year—I kept thinking if we found just…the right specialist or medication or miracle diet…I’d get her back exactly how she was before.” Her hands fidgeted around her cup, tracing circles into condensation rings left on fake wood grain.

“But nothing worked,” Harper continued after a moment. “And eventually it hit me: there wasn’t going to be some clear moment where we crossed over from ‘waiting’ to ‘moving on.’ It was all just…both at once.”

My jaw clenched reflexively—the words pinched nerves raw inside me—but Harper pressed on gently: “Ambiguous loss is what my therapist called it.” She almost laughed then—a sharp exhale through her nose. “Sounds fancy but really means you’re grieving someone who isn’t dead—or maybe grieving parts of them that are gone but their body’s still walking around making toast.”

Toast—why did that image make tears sting at my eyes? Maybe because Mark had burned three slices this week alone without noticing; maybe because he’d stood in our kitchen looking like an intruder in his own home while Ethan watched silently from behind his cereal bowl.

“It makes your head spin,” Harper said quietly when I didn’t answer right away. “Like…if you could only grieve properly then maybe things would settle down again inside your chest—but instead everything stays messy.”

She paused while steam fogged both our glasses and someone dropped coins noisily into the tip jar behind us.

“Sometimes,” Harper admitted with an awkward twist of lips that wasn’t quite a smile, “I used to wish Mom would either get better or die so at least one thing would be true.”

That startled something honest out of me—a tiny bark of laughter edged sharp as glass shards in honey tea—and instantly guilt flooded in after it.

Harper shrugged again—her earrings catching lamplight as they swayed—and reached over to rest warm fingers against my wrist for half a second before pulling back politely as if not wanting to crowd me too much.

“You ever feel like that?”

All day long lately—evenings especially when shadows stretched long across our bedroom walls and Mark lay beside me snoring softly but so far away he might’ve been sleeping underwater instead of inches away beneath blue flannel sheets we bought together last Christmas sales trip downtown—

But saying so felt impossible somehow; voicing it out loud meant admitting something final about hope itself dying quietly somewhere inside me each time Mark blinked blankly when I mentioned old friends or favorite movies or our first date hiking Tiger Mountain until sunset painted everything gold—

“I do,” I whispered finally—not looking directly at her but letting myself breathe those two words into space between us thickened by coffee scent and rain ghosts tapping glass outside—

For several minutes neither of us talked much—we picked apart scones (lemon-poppyseed today) and watched people come and go—one woman struggled getting twin toddlers zipped into tiny yellow raincoats while an elderly man carefully wiped condensation off his phone screen before checking messages—

A memory surfaced uninvited: first winter after Ethan was born—Mark standing bleary-eyed over Ethan’s crib humming some nonsense tune while wind rattled windows—all three of us bundled together under one blanket watching snow pile deeper outside—

Wasn’t even sure anymore if that memory belonged only to me now—or if some piece of Mark still carried echoes buried somewhere deep beneath whatever wall had gone up inside him since April twenty-second—the night everything split open along fault lines nobody saw coming except maybe Marjorie Blevins peering through lace curtains next door—

“You know what helped?” Harper asked eventually breaking quiet again—her foot tapping restlessly against chair leg in rhythm with Billie Holiday crooning overhead—

“What?”

“Letting myself miss who Mom used to be without pretending she could come back exactly same way.” She smiled sadly but strong too—the kind earned not inherited—and took another sip before continuing:

“And talking about both versions out loud—even when it made other people uncomfortable.” A pointed glance—not unkind—in direction of another table where two women pretended not to listen while scrolling Instagram feeds between bites of banana bread—

I picked up my mug—it trembled slightly despite being anchored between both palms—and stared hard at swirling cream dissolving into dark roast sea below:

“What if he never comes back?” The question slipped free before pride could stop it—a stone thrown blindly toward uncertain water—

Harper shook her head slowly—not no but not yes either—and leaned forward:

“Then you figure out who *you* want beside you now—even if he looks familiar but feels brand new.”

Rain softened outside; wind gentled against cedar siding; somewhere Marjorie’s dog yapped twice then fell silent again—

At home tonight Mark would ask what groceries we needed then forget halfway through writing the list—I knew this already same way muscle remembers stairs climbed daily for decades even as mind drifts elsewhere entirely—

But here—in this coffee shop cocooned by strangers’ laughter and tart lemon scone—I let myself imagine (just briefly) choosing grief rather than waiting endlessly for resurrection that might never come—

Harper reached across table once more—not grabbing tight this time just resting presence there quietly—a lifeline disguised as casual gesture:

“You’re allowed both things at once,” she murmured gently enough nobody else heard except perhaps Billie Holiday herself drifting timeless above sugar packets stacked neat along counter edge;

And suddenly—for first time since April—I wondered what life might look like built fresh atop ruins rather than clinging forever beside ghosts haunting shared pillows every night;

Outside thunder rumbled low above river bend—a warning or invitation impossible yet somehow necessary;

I gathered crumbs absentmindedly into napkin pocketed them safe unsure why only knowing tomorrow would demand proof these moments happened real not dreamed;

And as Harper rose returning apron tied tight round waist readying herself for afternoon rush—I caught reflection blurred in windowpane behind steaming mug:

Not quite whole

Not quite broken

Just here

Waiting for whatever came next

CHAPTER 13: Lines in the Sand

The dishwasher hummed in the background, a sound so familiar it should have been comforting. Instead, Julia paced her kitchen tiles, barefoot, toes snagging on the braided rug she’d always meant to replace. It was almost noon and she hadn’t eaten; her stomach growled, but hunger felt like an afterthought these days—one more need she could ignore.

She reached for her phone. No new messages from Ethan. He’d spent the night at Ben’s house after yet another argument that ended with slammed doors and silence. She told herself it was fine—he needed space, he was seventeen—but the quiet pressed against her chest like a weight.

Sam texted: **”Are you home? I’m coming over.”**

Julia stared at the screen, thumb hovering over reply. Before she could answer, there was a sharp knock on the front door. Julia jumped.

When she opened it, Sam barreled in with two paper coffee cups and a bag of something that smelled like cinnamon sugar.

“Don’t even say you’re not hungry,” Sam said by way of greeting. “I brought bear claws.”

Julia managed half a smile as they moved to the kitchen island. The granite countertop held Mark’s mail—credit card offers addressed to “Mark Reynolds or Current Resident”—and one sticky note with a grocery list in her own neat handwriting: eggs, spinach, toothpaste.

Sam set down their drinks and peeled open the bakery bag. “Eat,” she ordered softly.

Julia tore off a piece of pastry but didn’t taste it going down. Sam watched her chew with narrowed eyes—her version of maternal concern.

“How are you?” Sam finally asked.

The question landed somewhere between simple and impossible. Julia shrugged and picked at crumbs on the counter.

“That bad?”

“It’s…” Julia trailed off, unsure how to articulate this dull ache behind every moment—the gnawing sense that nothing would ever quite fit together again.

Sam exhaled through her nose, then slid onto one of the barstools and sipped coffee noisily. “Look,” she started carefully, “I’ve been trying not to stick my nose in your business too much because…well.” She gestured vaguely toward nowhere in particular—the house? Mark? All of it?

“But?”

“But.” Sam leaned forward until their elbows nearly touched across the island. “Jules—you can’t keep setting yourself on fire just to keep everyone else warm.”

Julia blinked at her friend’s intensity.

“I mean it,” Sam went on quietly now—a voice meant for broken things and fragile mornings. “You’re running yourself ragged taking care of Mark when he doesn’t even know if he likes scrambled eggs anymore or which side of the bed is his.”

A bitter laugh escaped before Julia could stop it; last week Mark had tried sleeping on *her* side and woke up confused by sunlight streaming through windows he swore were never there before.

“He needs me,” Julia said weakly.

“No,” Sam corrected gently but firmly. “He needs help—and you’re allowed to be part of that help—but you also get to have needs too.”

Julia didn’t answer right away; instead she looked around her kitchen as if expecting someone else’s life might materialize if she stared hard enough—a life where anniversaries weren’t marked by police reports and missing person flyers folded into glove compartments alongside expired insurance cards.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Julia asked suddenly—anything to steer away from herself for just a minute longer.

Sam grinned despite herself. “Yeah—I stole your seat at orientation because I thought you looked like someone who’d share snacks.”

“You ate my entire sleeve of Oreos.”

“And I bought you lunch for three weeks straight in apology! Come on—I wasn’t *that* bad.” Her smile faded back into seriousness as quickly as it appeared: “You always took care of everybody else back then too.”

Julia traced invisible lines along the grout between tiles with one thumbnail—a nervous tic since childhood when worries felt safer contained within boxes or grids or lists scribbled onto loose-leaf paper rather than left unspooled inside her head.

“It feels selfish,” Julia whispered finally—not meeting Sam’s eyes—”to want anything right now.”

“Selfish is buying concert tickets during rent week,” Sam shot back gently but without room for argument.” Wanting your husband back—or hell, wanting yourself back—isn’t selfish.”

A heavy pause settled between them while outside somewhere an engine revved—the neighbor’s teenage son probably showing off his new car again—and wind rattled rain against windowpanes already streaked from last night’s storm.

“You know what I think?” Sam continued softly after a moment passed unnoticed except by dust motes swirling lazily in sunlight patches on wood floors.” I think you’re scared if you stop holding everything together it’ll all fall apart.”

Julia closed her eyes; yes—that was exactly it—but saying so made it too real somehow so instead she pressed palms flat against cool stone countertop until fingertips tingled from pressure alone.

“Maybe,” she admitted quietly.” Or maybe I’m just tired.”

“Then let go,” Sam urged.” Let *someone* help—even if it’s messy.”

Before Julia could argue further they heard footsteps overhead—the kind that sounded heavier than Ethan’s usual thump-thump along hallways but lighter than Mark’s old stomp before everything changed forever—and both women fell silent instinctively listening for what came next…but there was nothing except settling beams complaining about age or weather or both combined into groaning harmony above them all these years later still standing somehow regardless how many storms battered rooflines thin with memory-laden rainwater seeped deep inside walls nobody ever saw until mold bloomed green behind paint peeling in corners no one bothered looking closely enough anymore anyway—

Finally Sam squeezed Julia’s hand once firm then let go.” You need air,” she declared decisively grabbing both coats from hooks near pantry door.” And carbs don’t count as therapy.”

It took little convincing; minutes later they were out walking briskly under low slate-colored sky dodging puddles reflecting tangled telephone wires strung high above streets lined neat with tulips planted long ago by neighbors whose names everybody knew even if secrets ran deeper beneath manicured lawns trimmed tight each Saturday morning while leaf blowers drowned out birdsong until noon—

They stopped at Harper’s café where chalkboard signs promised vegan muffins today (but always ran out early) and bell above doorway chimed twice as they entered warmth scented strong with espresso beans ground fresh every hour because Harper refused pre-ground anything calling it “an affront to civilization.”

Harper glanced up mid-foam swirl behind counter.” Hey Jules,” they called waving spatula hello.” Scone?”

“I’ll take whatever isn’t pretending to be healthy,” Julia managed weakly settling into corner booth already worn soft by years’ worth local gossip whispered low over second refills late afternoon shadows stretching long across tabletops ringed faintly white where mugs rested daily undisturbed ritual unchanged season after season no matter whose heart broke latest—

Sam ordered tea; Harper delivered pastries wrapped napkin-tight plus extra honey packets (“for emergencies”). The world outside blurred wet against glass panes fogged slightly where breath met cold air leaking faint draft past poorly sealed caulk job nobody fixed last winter—

For several minutes neither woman spoke—the clatter around them oddly soothing—but eventually words spilled loose unbidden:

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now,” Julia confessed staring down at chipped mug painted sunflowers bright yellow faded almost white along handle worn smooth through use alone time passing unnoticed except here marked visible edge by edge glaze gone missing each year another chip lost unseen till suddenly everything different never quite same again—

Sam reached across table squeezing wrist gentle reassurance silent promise not leaving soon no matter how dark thoughts cloud horizon uncertain hope stubborn thing refusing die easy just because circumstances shift beneath feet unstable sand threatening collapse anytime tide comes rolling swift unexpected sometimes dragging treasures buried deep other times only seaweed tangled mess difficult untangle bare hands shaking cold salt stinging raw skin memory sharp relentless unforgiving yet somehow necessary reminder alive still fighting even small ways daily ordinary heroism overlooked unless named aloud bravely present company included especially today especially now most important simply sit beside hurting person hold space nothing more required worthy nonetheless always

At some point Harper dropped off two glasses water plus tiny bowl lemon wedges (“helps headaches trust me”) disappearing before gratitude voiced properly remaining nearby anyway presence anchor subtle steady background hum reliable comfort found nowhere else lately least not home certainly not within self either lost wandering maze confusion regret unresolved longing echoing hollow bone-deep ache sleepless nights stretching endless horizonless future unclear

After another silence stretched elastic tight nearly breaking something inside snapped sudden unexpected tears springing hot fierce stinging cheeks flushed embarrassment shame mingling relief truth spoken finally aloud brittle whisper barely audible above hiss milk steamer:

“I’m so tired pretending this is okay.”

Words hung suspended shimmering fragile soap bubble ready burst any instant

And when next bell tinkled above entrance signaling new customer arrival perhaps old friend perhaps stranger fate unknown yet possible either way story far from finished only beginning another chapter waiting turn page discover what comes next

CHAPTER 14: Coffee Shop Collapse

Harper’s café always smelled like burnt caramel and lemon zest, a combination that had no right to work but somehow did. Julia pushed through the glass door into the chatter and warmth, the bell overhead giving a half-hearted jangle. She hesitated, scanning for an empty table—her hands clenched around her phone as if it might try to wriggle away.

The place was busy, but not suffocatingly so. Two women in yoga pants debated over muffin flavors near the pastry case; a guy with wireless earbuds tapped at his laptop, one knee bouncing erratically. The world kept on spinning out here, she realized—not waiting for lost husbands or their wives who couldn’t sleep anymore.

Julia drifted toward her usual corner—a little two-top under the chalkboard menu—and dropped her purse onto the seat before she sat down herself, exhaling hard enough to fog up her glasses. She yanked them off, wiped them with a napkin from the dispenser. There was something sticky on it—syrup maybe? Of course.

“Hey Jules,” Harper called from behind the counter. Her pink hair was pulled into two stubby pigtails today; she looked about sixteen and ageless all at once. “You want your regular?”

Julia managed something like a smile and nodded. “Yeah… thanks.” Her voice barely carried over the espresso machine’s hiss.

She slumped forward while Harper scribbled on a cup: JULIA in bubble letters with a little sun drawn next to it. Some days that doodle made Julia feel seen; today it felt like someone else’s name entirely.

She could hear snippets of conversation: someone planning a camping trip (“No way am I sleeping outside after last time—I still have scars”); another person griping about city traffic (“It’s all those damn roundabouts”). It should have been comforting—the mundane chaos—but instead it pressed in against her temples like too-tight headphones.

Her phone buzzed again—Sam’s name lighting up for what must have been the fifth time this morning alone.

Sam: You okay?

Sam: I’m coming by.

Sam: Seriously answer me

Julia set her phone face-down on the table and stared at her reflection in its black screen for just long enough to catch sight of bloodshot eyes and hair clinging damply to her forehead. She’d stopped caring about appearances sometime between Ethan slamming his bedroom door last night and Mark staring past her at breakfast as if searching for clues he’d never find on toast crumbs or orange juice pulp.

Harper slid over with Julia’s coffee—a flat white topped with cinnamon dusted into something approximating a heart—and lingered longer than usual, elbows on table edge.

“You look like you’re auditioning for some kind of coffee shop ghost story,” Harper said softly.

“I wish I was invisible,” Julia replied before she could stop herself.

Harper tilted her head sympathetically. “Want company? Or should I clear out so you can haunt in peace?”

A snort escaped Julia despite herself—something halfway between laughter and crying. “Maybe just… let me sit here awhile.”

Harper squeezed her hand quick-quick before retreating behind the counter again, launching into an overly cheery greeting for new customers as though nothing had happened at all.

Julia sipped mechanically at her coffee—it tasted exactly as expected, familiar heat blooming across her tongue—and tried not to think about Mark sitting on their couch right now watching reruns of game shows he claimed not to remember loving, Ethan texting furiously from upstairs until finally announcing he’d be staying at Owen’s tonight “for space.” As if space would solve anything when everything felt hollow anyway.

The bell chimed again: Sam swept in wearing ripped jeans and a raincoat covered in dog hair (she must have hugged Max goodbye). She clocked Julia instantly and homed in without preamble, sliding opposite so forcefully that cups rattled nearby.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathed out as soon as she saw Julia’s face up close. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know,” Julia mumbled into her sleeve. The cinnamon heart dissolved under trembling fingers; she pinched its ghost between thumb and forefinger until only smudges remained.

Sam didn’t ask permission—she reached across and caught both of Julia’s hands in hers, squeezing hard enough that Julia almost pulled away out of instinct rather than discomfort.

“Jules.” Sam leaned closer still, lowering her voice but sharpening each word until they cut through caffeine haze and exhaustion alike. “You cannot keep doing this alone.”

Julia blinked rapidly—once twice three times—but couldn’t find anything smart or brave to say back. Sam forged ahead anyway:

“I know you want to fix this for everyone—for Mark, for Ethan… hell probably even Marjorie next door if she asked.” (That earned half an eye-roll from Julia.) “But this isn’t just about them.”

“It is though,” Julia whispered fiercely—or as fierce as anyone could be while trying not to sob aloud in public. “Mark comes home broken—I don’t get to fall apart first.”

Sam made an exasperated sound deep in her throat—the sort usually reserved for people who refused flu shots or believed horoscopes were legally binding contracts.

“That man vanished without warning,” Sam said quietly but firmly now—voice all steel wrapped around velvet edges—”and then came back wronger than any sci-fi movie ever dared write.”

Julia flinched—not because Sam meant harm but because ‘wronger’ landed true somewhere beneath ribs already bruised by worry and sleeplessness both.

“And you—you are allowed to grieve what you’ve lost.” Sam squeezed harder until bones protested gently beneath skin gone clammy with nerves. “Even if nobody died.”

Something inside Julia gave way then—not loudly or theatrically but soft as thread unspooling from old fabric left too long untouched by sunlight or care; suddenly everything stung more sharply than before because there was no energy left to hold any piece upright anymore—

Her breath shuddered out; tears rose hot behind lids refusing stubbornly not to blink them away anymore—

She pressed shaking hands flat against cheeks gone blotchy-red with effort not quite strong enough—

And then she cried—in public—in Harper Lee Chang’s coffee shop—with people pretending politely not to notice except one older woman who handed over napkins without comment before returning wordlessly to sudoku puzzles by window light filtered green through potted ferns overhead—

Sam sat silent beside her except when murmuring useless comforts (“Breathe—you’re okay—it will pass”) punctuated by quiet outrage (“He doesn’t get dibs on suffering just because he forgot your anniversary”).

They stayed there while minutes stretched elastic-thin around grief spilling messy across tabletops sticky with syrup rings; somewhere outside rain started up again—a fine drizzle painting rivers down windows already clouded by steam and kitchen heat—

At some point Harper reappeared bearing two pastries neither had ordered—a poppyseed scone split neatly down middle (“on the house” wink)—and left them alone once more except for occasional refills slipped onto saucers without fanfare or charge—

Eventually tears ran dry leaving headache behind sharp as hunger pangs after skipped meals piled atop nights spent pacing shadowy halls listening for footsteps that never arrived—

“I don’t know how much more I can take,” Julia admitted finally—voice hoarse-edged but steadier now than when she’d walked inside thirty minutes earlier feeling less real than chalk dust ground beneath strangers’ shoes—

“You don’t have do it alone,” Sam replied simply—as though stating gravity or weather forecast rather than promise sworn true since childhood sleepovers spent plotting futures far less tangled than this one turned out—

Across street headlights flashed past too fast for recognition; inside warmth held steady against chill pressing close beyond glass boundaries they pretended would always protect them from whatever waited outside—

Then—just above noise of grinder starting up again—a different sound cut through:

Her phone buzzing frantic atop table where she’d forgotten it entirely—

Ethan’s name glowing bright across cracked screen:

Mom call me please something happened

Julia’s heart leapt sideways against ribs newly softened by grief—and every muscle tensed ready whether for fight flight or something altogether stranger yet still possible within walls lined top-to-bottom with mismatched mugs promising comfort none could truly deliver tonight—

CHAPTER 15: Empty Rooms Echo Louder

The silence in Ethan’s room is different. Not just the absence of his music—which he plays too loud, then claims he needs to concentrate—but a quiet that feels hollowed out, unnatural. The curtains hang limp in the gray light, and the bed is made with the kind of precision only achieved when no one sleeps in it. Julia stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, as if she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower.

His duffel bag is gone from its usual spot by the desk. Only a faint indentation in the carpet remains, a ghostly reminder that he left sometime between dusk and dawn. The mug she’d brought him last night—chamomile tea he never drank—sits on his nightstand; a rim of dried honey clings to the inside. She picks it up and stares at her reflection warped by porcelain curve.

She should text him again. It’s been almost two hours since his last message: “Got here fine. Don’t worry.” Four words, brisk and defensive—the digital equivalent of slamming a door behind him. She tries not to take it personally but fails miserably.

Downstairs, Mark’s shoes are still lined up neatly on their mat by the entryway—brown leather Oxfords polished for some imagined office meeting that hasn’t happened in months. The house smells like lemon cleaner and something faintly metallic—a scent she can’t place but suspects has seeped into everything since that first day he came back.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and scrolls through old photos: Ethan grinning with braces at age twelve; Mark flipping pancakes on Sunday morning; all three of them pressed together on a rocky Oregon beach last summer, wind tangling their hair into wild shapes. Her thumb hovers over Ethan’s contact before she locks the screen again.

Sam texts: *You okay? Want company? Or murder podcast distraction?*

Julia imagines Sam standing in her own kitchen across town, coffee cup balanced precariously on a stack of unread library books. The offer makes Julia smile despite herself.

She types back: *I’m alive but my brain is eating itself.* Then adds: *Rain check? Need to clear my head first.*

A beat later: *Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do* appears onscreen with three skull emojis.

Julia drops her phone onto the hall table and wanders into what used to be Ethan’s playroom—now mostly storage for forgotten sports equipment and boxes labeled “Xmas Lights?” A Nerf dart sits lodged under an old shelf bracket; she flicks it free absently, watches it skitter across dusty floorboards toward a sunbeam where dust motes dance like lazy fairies.

Mark comes down from upstairs carrying two mismatched socks balled in his fist—one blue-striped, one plain white—and pauses at seeing her there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is softer than usual this morning, uncertain around its edges.

“I slept,” Julia lies automatically. “Just… checking things.”

He hesitates at the threshold like someone unsure if they’re welcome in their own home—a look she’s seen too often lately—and glances past her at the cluttered shelves as though hoping for instructions written somewhere among childhood detritus.

“I can help clean up,” he says after an awkward pause, setting down his socks atop an old Monopoly box missing half its money cards.

“It’s fine,” Julia says quickly. “Nothing urgent.”

They stand together without speaking for several heartbeats until Mark clears his throat—a nervous tic picked up recently—and fidgets with his wedding band as if testing whether it still fits.

“Ethan called me last night,” he blurts suddenly.

Julia blinks at him, surprised enough that words escape her for once.

“He said he needed space.” Mark offers this like an apology or maybe even a confession—the cadence unfamiliar coming from someone who once filled silences so easily with laughter or idle plans about movie nights and camping trips they never took.

“What did you say?”

He shrugs helplessly. “I told him I get it.” There’s no trace of anger in his voice; just resignation threaded through fatigue lines beneath his eyes. “That we’re both trying.”

The urge rises—irrational but fierce—to grab him by those shoulders and shake loose whatever memories might be hiding inside: anniversaries remembered only by candle drips on tablecloths; arguments resolved over midnight slices of cold pizza; lullabies hummed when fever spiked at 2AM because Julia was too tired to sing alone. But she doesn’t move—not even when Mark steps closer as though searching for something solid between them—and instead runs her finger along a dented aluminum baseball bat propped against wall paint scuffed by years’ worth of missed swings and practice throws gone wild.

“It’ll be okay,” Mark says softly—not quite believing himself—and leaves before she can answer or ask what ‘okay’ could possibly mean now that nothing fits right anymore.

Later—instead of cleaning or cooking or any other productive thing adults are supposed to do when their lives fall apart quietly—she finds herself driving through drizzle toward Main Street Coffee & Books because sometimes being anonymous among strangers feels safer than facing empty rooms echoing with your failures.

Harper looks up from behind espresso machine when Julia enters—the bell above door chiming low and mournful—and gives a half-nod reserved for regulars who don’t need small talk today.

“Hey Jules,” Harper calls over steam hiss without missing beat tamping grounds flat into portafilter. “Your usual?”

“Yes please.” Her voice comes out hoarse; she covers cough with fist then slides onto stool nearest window overlooking rain-streaked sidewalk where someone (probably Marjorie) has abandoned a cheery yellow umbrella beside overflowing trash bin outside bakery next door.

A trio of college kids debate philosophy near fireplace while an older couple argue amicably about crossword clues (“It’s obviously ‘enigma’, Frank!”). The normalcy swells around Julia like warm water lapping gently against bruises nobody else can see—that illusion that life continues unbroken everywhere except precisely where you live it most closely yourself.

Her latte arrives topped with artful foam leaf curling sideways atop cinnamon dusting; Harper sets napkin beside mug without comment except quick squeeze to Julia’s shoulder—a kindness briefer than breath but somehow enough to keep breathing another minute longer.

She pulls out notebook (the battered green one Sam gifted after therapy started) intending maybe grocery lists or mindless doodles… Instead finds herself writing:

*Ethan safe w/ Max*

*Mark stranger every day*

*House so loud w/out anyone talking*

The pen hovers midair as tears threaten—hot prickling traitors trying desperately not to fall where anyone could notice—but Harper has already turned away busying herself rinsing pitchers behind counter.

After three sips (bitter-sweet comfort), Julia wipes eyes roughly on sleeve then flips page and sketches outline of front door key—crooked teeth barely fitting lock anymore.

Her phone buzzes again:

From Ethan: *Don’t forget I’ve got practice till late tomorrow.*

No emojis this time but also no sign-off which means maybe things aren’t broken completely beyond repair yet.

But even as relief settles somewhere deep beneath ribs there’s no mistaking how every word exchanged—or withheld—stretches invisible thread further taut between mother and son until something must give way.

Across café window glass raindrops race each other downward leaving streaks resembling veins branching out across city map neither Reynolds knows how to navigate anymore.

When Sam finally calls—not texts but actually calls—it startles Julia so much latte sloshes onto notebook margin staining ink into blurry blue blooms.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly before Julia can muster hello.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

And just then—with streetlights blinking gold against twilight puddles outside—it occurs to Julia how much emptier rooms sound when all you want is someone familiar filling them again.

She closes her eyes around ache threatening fresh tears as Harper asks if she wants anything else—but what more could there possibly be?

Outside thunder rumbles low overhead promising storms yet to break wide open over town before dawn comes creeping silent down cul-de-sac once more.