The tone of his voice changed instantly. “Hey, baby,” he said, like I wasn’t even on the floor. “Mmm, I missed you already.”
I wiped my face slowly, one sleeve at a time.
His voice dropped into something warm. Giddy. Teenage. “Yeah, yeah, I’m packing. Can’t wait to see you in that bikini again. Damn. This cruise’ll be insane. You and me. Open sea.”
I didn’t follow Edmund.
He walked away, still giggling with Elizabeth like a boy on prom night, whispering into his phone about bikinis and champagne like I wasn’t still on the floor with my knees aching and my soul halfway gone.
I stood. My knees creaked. My hand smudged across the tile, picking up dirt and pride. I walked to the bathroom. Closed the door quietly. Stared into the mirror like I didn’t know the woman staring back—eyes puffy, cheek red, hair undone. Like someone who tried to cry underwater and failed.
There’s no funeral. But I’m mourning.
Not for him. Not for us.
For me.
For the girl I used to be before love took her name and silence stole her voice.
Just then, he passed by. Didn’t knock. Didn’t ask if I was alive. Still on the phone, laughing—then paused long enough to say, “Pack my things. Business-leisure trip. We leave tomorrow.”
No “please.” No glance. No soul.
I nodded. Not that he was looking.
I dried my hands on the crooked towel. Walked to his room like a maid. Opened the closet. Chaos—suits tangled with polos, shoes under dirty laundry. A grown man living like a spoiled teen.
I started folding his shirts. White linen. Navy power. Cleaned his cufflinks with my sleeve.
Then I bumped the side table.
A folder slipped. I picked it up, expecting tax papers. But inside—cruise tickets.
I blinked.
I read them twice and my fingers tightening.
Edmund Morocco. Elizabeth Morocco. Lester. Loisa. Lyle. Nash.
My name wasn’t there.
Not even as a +1. Not even as a footnote.
The cruise? The one I dreamed of...
But now? Elizabeth’s birthday is in three days and he has time? He remembered hers.
Not mine.
Never mine.
I folded the tickets gently. Like they could bleed.
Then I packed his suitcase. Polished his shoes. Ironed his pants. Lined up his deodorant and vitamins like hotel staff would.
Lester walked in. No knock. “Ma, pack my stuff too, yeah? Loisa’s busy.” He sipped a beer. “Don’t forget the twins. Nash wants his charger. Lyle needs the blue swim shorts. Snacks too—they get bored.”
Then he left. And I packed it all.