"These are Vivian's things. I'll bring them to her when I return them."
After he said it, he watched my face with open expectation.
As if waiting for me to ask where.
I didn't ask. I just said, "Oh."
A long silence passed. He shifted, uneasy, and tested the waters.
"Virginia, have you been following up on the immigration process?"
"I have."
"So… you've submitted all your paperwork?"
"Submitted."
He exhaled, visibly relieved, and smiled.
"Good."
I gave no reaction.
I just tossed more things into the trash.
We started dealing with the house in the States.
Robert began posting foreign apartments on social media.
Friends left comments.
"Already picked a place? We'll come visit once you're settled!"
I didn't like any of the posts. I didn't comment.
We'd lived in this house for ten years. Every corner held a memory.
A map of home hung on the living room wall. We'd put it up the day we moved in.
Back then, he'd held me close and said,
"When we go back, we'll visit all these places."
He'd marked dozens of spots with red pushpins.
"These are the aerospace cities. Someday we'll see every single one."
The map was still there. The red pushpins were still there.
The man who'd said those words no longer remembered them.