Chapter 17 - Clearing the SlateThat evening, I decided to pack up the last remnants of my personal history stored in the old suburban house before the property was formally auctioned off by the liquidators.
The house was completely empty, echoing with the hollow sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floors.
In the master closet, tucked away on the top shelf behind a row of old winter coats, I found a forgotten cardboard box. Inside were old college photo albums, old architectural notebooks filled with my very first hand-drawn sketches, and a small, dusty frame containing a photograph of Daniel and me from our wedding day ten years ago.
In the photo, I was smiling, wearing a simple white dress, looking up at him as if he hung the stars in the sky.
I traced the glass with my thumb, feeling nothing—no anger, no sorrow, not even lingering resentment. Just the distant detachment of looking at a stranger in a museum exhibit.
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I didn't smash the frame. I didn't tear the photo.
I simply tossed the entire box into the large industrial trash bin parked in the driveway, walked back to my car, and drove away without looking in the rearview mirror.
