Finalize the divorce. Then, at June Fox's birthday gala, deliver them a gift they'd never forget.
I came back to the home I'd lived in for three years. Every corner of it I had arranged with my own hands.
The nursery still held the tiny clothes and shoes I'd bought for our baby.
Once, Patrick had held me close, his forehead pressed to mine, his eyes impossibly tender. "Serena, let's have a baby. I want a daughter, as beautiful as you."
He used to rest his hand on my belly and read stories to the baby every single night without fail.
Worried I wouldn't like what the housekeeper cooked, he taught himself to make meals suited for a pregnant woman.
Back then, I believed we would be happy forever.
Now, all of it was ash.
I threw everything connected to Patrick into boxes. I was leaving, and nothing would stay behind.
With every item I cleared away, a memory surfaced. Every movie we watched together. Every trip we took.
But once it all went into the boxes, I could let go. And once I let go, it wouldn't hurt anymore.
Then I called the housekeeper and told her to take it all to the dump. Immediately.
I had just finished when the front door opened.