the front window.I moved it back.
She moved it again.
I moved it back again.
The third time, it disappeared.
Ryan told me she had put it in the storage closet because Duke needed room.
I found it under a box of Christmas lights, one runner scraped raw.
I stood there with my hand on the closet door and felt something sour settle beneath my ribs.
It was not about a chair.
It was about whether Patricia could still have a place in the house we had built together.
It was about whether I could.
I should have said something then.
I should have told them the chair stayed where it belonged or they could leave.
Instead, I carried it back out, placed it in the living room, and said nothing.
Silence is not always patience.
Sometimes it is just permission wearing a nicer coat.
Ryan’s business never became
