For the first time, Gwen realized her grief wasn’t as sharp with Elizabeth around. There were no biting comments, no icy silences—just an uneasy truce. It wasn’t affection, but it was something. Gwen found herself grateful, if cautious.
One morning, Gwen woke with a migraine, exhausted from crying. She shuffled to the kitchen. Elizabeth took one look and made her tea, toast, and handed over a painkiller. “Eat something, then take this,” she said gently. Gwen accepted with a trembling “Thank you,” not sure how to process the unexpected kindness.
After breakfast, Gwen returned to bed. She was drifting to sleep when Elizabeth appeared again, apologizing, and handed over a stack of invoices. “These need your signature for the vendors.” Gwen, barely awake, signed each page. She trusted that Elizabeth had checked everything.
A few hours later, Gwen woke to an unusually quiet house. Elizabeth was gone—her guest room empty, her suitcase missing. In the kitchen, a note on the fridge: Found a hotel—decided to move over there. That was it. Gwen tried calling, but every call went to voicemail. The house felt emptier than before.