Chapter 3
About a month after Isabella left, Shepard found himself rummaging through her things, though he couldn't have said what he was hoping to find.
The house still held traces of her everywhere, but somehow it felt emptier than ever.
At the bottom of the bedroom closet, buried beneath a pile of old sweaters, he came across an old shoebox. Inside, it was stuffed with ticket stubs: movie tickets, restaurant receipts, and train passes.
Every single one had been carefully saved and arranged in order by date.
The oldest ticket was from three years ago. The ink had faded so badly that he could barely make out the movie title, and he had no memory of ever seeing that film with her.
Beneath the tickets lay a notebook with a pale blue cover, a worn star sticker peeling off the front.
Shepard opened it to the first page. The date was April 2nd, three years ago, the day after they'd registered their marriage.
[Today, I became Mrs. Foster. Mother says marrying into the Foster family is my lucky break, so why do I feel so hollow inside? He barely speaks to me, and he never looks my way. Still, I believe that someday he'll really see me.]
He kept turning the pages, reading entry after entry.
[One week. He works late every single night, so I eat alone. I tell myself it's fine. He's busy, so I need to be understanding.]
[One month. I made fried catfish today, and he said, "Not bad." That's the first time he's ever complimented my cooking. I was happy about it all day long.]
[Three months. He's away on a business trip, and I'm here by myself. I sent him a text on WhatsApp, but he never wrote back. I guess he's too busy.]
[Six months. It's my birthday, and he forgot. I bought myself a small cake, lit a candle, and made a wish: maybe next year he'll remember.]
[One year. He still forgot our anniversary. That's okay. I'm sure next year will be different.]
[A year and a half. I had a high fever today. I called him, but he said he was in a meeting and told me to call an ambulance.
[I went to the hospital alone. I couldn't stop crying while they put in the IV. The nurse asked if I had any family with me, and I said no.]
[Two years. He mentioned divorce for the first time. I know he probably didn't mean it, but it scared me anyway.]
[Two and a half years. I saw a photo of him having dinner with another woman. It hurt more than I expected. When I asked him, he said she was a client. I had to believe him, because I didn't have any other choice.]
[Three years. Our anniversary is coming up again. This time, I'm going to put everything I have into making it special. Maybe he'll finally be moved. Maybe he'll finally see me. Won't he?]
The last entry was dated three months ago.
Her handwriting had gone shaky, as if her hand had been trembling while she wrote.
[Tonight, he came home drunk and pulled me into a hug, mumbling, "I'm sorry." I don't know what he was apologizing for, and honestly, I don't want to ask. I think... I don't love him the way I used to.
[If I ever leave, it won't be because I stopped loving him. It'll be because I'm too exhausted to keep loving him anymore.
[Goodbye, Shepard.]
Shepard closed the notebook and noticed that his hands were shaking.
He thought back to all those messages she used to send him: [Bundle up. It's getting cold outside.], [Be careful on your trip.], and [I'll be waiting for you at home.]
Most of the time, he hadn't bothered to reply at all, and when he did, it was only a curt [Yeah.]
He remembered the time she made fried catfish, and he'd tossed out a casual "Not bad." Her eyes had crinkled, and she was so happy.
Back then, he'd thought it was ridiculous. It was a throwaway comment, nothing special. He didn't understand what she was so thrilled about.
Now, finally, he understood.
That one lukewarm remark had been the only praise she'd heard from him in an entire month.
He remembered the night she had a high fever. He really had been in a meeting.
After hanging up, he'd hesitated for a second, thinking he should tell her to call a car to the hospital. Then the meeting started back up, and the thought simply slipped away.
When he got home that night, she was already asleep with a fever patch on her forehead. He'd glanced at her, then turned and walked straight to his study.
He hadn't even bothered to pour her a glass of water.
Shepard sank into her usual spot on the couch and buried his face in his hands.
At three o'clock in the morning, with the living room completely empty and silent, he finally whispered two words into the darkness for the first time.
"I'm sorry."