After I was discharged from the hospital, I moved into the small apartment under my name that I hadn't set foot in for years.
Every morning, something new appeared outside my door—steaming chicken soup, bags of medication for my leg with handwritten instructions, even the wedding ring I'd taken off.
I told the cleaner to dump the soup, dropped the medication off at the community clinic, and had the courier return the ring to the Pierce family.
That night, another food container appeared outside my door.
The moment the faint smell reached me, my stomach twisted, and I had to fight back the urge to throw up.
In my past life, I'd stood over the stove making soup for Ethan too.
When I'd carried it upstairs to our bedroom, I'd found him curled up in our bed with another woman in his arms.
