Both of them had mistaken a woman in pain for a woman without power.
I never needed to destroy them to prove they were wrong.
I only had to stop protecting them from the truth.
The last time I closed the front door after Daniel collected the final box of his belongings, the house was quiet.
My daughter was asleep upstairs.
The wedding photograph was gone.
The mark where its frame had protected the paint was still visible on the wall, a pale rectangle surrounded by years of sunlight.
I stood there for a moment looking at it.
Then I carried the empty frame to a closet.
I did not replace the photograph immediately.
Some spaces do not need to be filled the moment they become empty.
Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is leave them open until you know what belongs there next.
