How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

By the time Elodie reached the house, it was nearly nine. Rush hour traffic had eaten up most of her evening.

Cara, the housekeeper, looked surprised to see her. "Mrs. Sinclair, you're back! Have you eaten? Shall I make you something?"

Elodie offered a polite smile. "No need. I'm not staying long-I'll be leaving soon."

Cara's face clouded with concern. "You just got home and you're leaving again? Did you... have a fight with Mr. Sinclair?"

Elodie knelt to open the shoe cabinet, searching for a pair of disposable slippers. "No," she replied simply.

And it was true.

The reality was, Jarrod had a habit of treating her as if she were invisible.

His indifference hurt more than any argument ever could.

Except for the few predictable days each month, they barely spoke at all. Fights? They never happened.

Now, they were simply getting divorced.

Cara had been the housekeeper since their wedding, and she thought she knew Elodie well-thought she was just being stubborn and prideful.

Cara couldn't help but try to coax her. "Mrs. Sinclair, there's no hurdle you can't get over. Couples argue and make up—that's marriage. Didn't you always say so yourself?"

"You love Mr. Sinclair so much, and you're lost without him. If this blows up..."

Would you really be able to back down gracefully?

In the end, you'd just swallow your pride and come crawling back. That's how it always looked.

Elodie paused, momentarily dazed.

how everyone

smile through the pain, to accept everything without complaint, to bend over backwards

one ever imagined she might be the one

silence, then changed the

Cara hesitated. "Not much..."

rest," Elodie said, as if she'd expected nothing

course Jarrod wasn't

a warm, welcoming escape. Why

was Jarrod's private sanctuary, strictly off-limits. The other, open and airy, was where she liked to read

years, she'd kept up with the world, never letting herself fall

place-she'd decorated it herself, after all-so she quickly found the book she was looking for on the

all the books she wanted to take with her and

little bit of exertion left

since her diagnosis, her body had grown weaker than

help her carry the box downstairs—and

pristine layer had already blanketed the ground

glanced at her phone.

Cara went off to bed. But after

She tried again. Nothing.

the car

checked the

main road would take half an hour, and cabs never came in here. With the snow coming down, rideshares would be backed up

frowned, fatigue weighing down

late, and she was too exhausted to trek out into

decided to stay