message inside occupied only four lines:
Laura,
Counting every day until the weekend.
Love,
Daniel.
Three readings couldn’t change the name: Laura, not Claire. I stood frozen with the faucet running until water spilled over the vase and counter. Turning it off with cold hands, I searched for harmless explanations—another Daniel, two orders switched at the shop. But the receipt showed our address and my husband’s full name: Daniel Mercer.
The weekend. That was the word I couldn’t escape. Daniel was leaving Friday morning for what he said was a
