The Life After You

The Things She Left Behind

The mansion felt like a museum; beautiful, untouchable, and empty.

I wandered the halls, my fingers trailing along the dark wood banisters of the grand staircase. The air smelled like polished mahogany and something faintly floral, probably the fresh roses in the entryway. Every step I took echoed, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for me to slip up.

I wasn’t Erica. I didn’t belong here.

But I had to pretend.

Mrs. Beatrice had left me alone after breakfast, her polite smile never quite reaching her eyes. She’d asked if I needed anything. I’d said no.

What I needed, who I needed, wasn’t in this house.

Gerald hadn’t come home last night. Again.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I deserved his absence. That I’d broken his heart five years ago, and now I was living in the wreckage of the life he’d built without me.

But it did matter.

I turned down a hallway I hadn’t explored yet, my bare feet silent on the tiles. The walls were lined with paintings real ones, the kind that belonged in galleries, not homes. A Rothko hung near the end, its deep reds and blacks swirling like a storm. I stopped in front of it, my breath catching.

I picked this out.

Erica had.

I pressed my palm against the wall, steadying myself. This was her life. Her choices. Her home. And I was just a ghost wearing her skin.

A door stood slightly ajar a few feet away. Curiosity pulled me toward it. I pushed it open.

The room smelled like turpentine and old paper. Canvases leaned against the walls, some blank, some half-finished. An easel stood in the center, a cloth draped over it. My pulse quickened.

Erica painted.

I’d had no idea.

I lifted the cloth.

The portrait underneath stole my breath.

It was Gerald.

Not the cold, distant man I knew now, but a younger version of him, caught mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his whole face alight with something I hadn’t seen in years “joy”. This was the Gerald I remembered. The one who’d taken me to Coney Island on our third date, who’d laughed so hard he’d snorted when I’d tried to win him a stuffed animal. The one who’d looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

My fingers trembled as I traced the brushstrokes. The paint was thick in places, almost angry, like she’d been trying to capture something she couldn’t quite hold onto.

“You stopped coming in here after you got pregnant.”

I turned around. Martha stood in the doorway, a feather duster in her hand. Her gaze flickered to the portrait, then back to me.

“I…..” My throat went dry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know she painted. I didn’t know she saw him like this., I thought.

Martha mistook my silence for something else. “The fumes made you sick,” she said softly. “You used to spend hours in here. Mr. Roth would sometimes just… stand and look at your work.”

My chest ached. Gerald, standing in this room, staring at paintings made by a wife he didn’t love, searching for something he’d lost.

Searching for “me”.

I swallowed hard. “It’s beautiful.”

Martha nodded. “You’re very talented, ma’am.”

No. She was.

I replaced the cloth, my hands unsteady. “What else don’t I know?”

Martha hesitated, then gestured down the hall. “The library’s that way. And the solarium, you loved the solarium. You’d sit there for hours with a book, even in winter.”

I followed her, my mind racing. Erica had layers I’d never guessed at. A painter. A reader. A woman who’d loved a man who couldn’t love her back.

Martha showed me the rest of the house; rooms I’d never seen, lives I’d never lived. A music room with a piano covered in dust. A solarium filled with healthy plants. A study where Gerald’s father glared down from a portrait, his stern face a reminder of the family I’d never be part of.

By the time we reached the master suite again, my head was spinning.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Martha studied me for a long moment. “You seem different, Mrs. Roth.”

My stomach dropped. “Different” was dangerous. Different meant I was failing.

I forced a smile. “Just tired. The medication….”

“No,” she cut in gently. “Not just tired. “Lighter”. Like something’s… shifted.”

I opened my mouth to lie, but the words died on my lips.

Martha didn’t wait for an answer. She just nodded and left me standing there, alone with the weight of Erica’s life pressing down on me.

*******

I waited until Paulette took Cynthia for her nap before slipping back into the closet.

The journal was still there, tucked behind a row of shoeboxes. I pulled it out, my fingers brushing the leather cover. Guilt twisted in my gut. This was private. Sacred. But I needed to know.

I needed to understand.

I sat by the window, the afternoon sun warming my shoulders, and opened the journal.

The first entries were what I expected; dates, events, the mundane details of a socialite’s life. “Lunch with the Whitmore sisters. Gala at the Met. Fitting for the charity auction.”

But then, the tone changed.

Week 10:

Morning sickness is brutal. Gerald moved to the guest room so my vomiting wouldn’t disturb his sleep. I haven’t seen him in three days.

Week 15:

Found out we’re having a girl. Gerald said, “That’s nice,” and went back to his laptop. I’m going to name her Cynthia, after my mother. Gerald doesn’t care what we name her.

Week 20:

Felt the baby kick today. Gerald was in Tokyo. I called to tell him. He said, “That’s wonderful,” like I’d told him the weather. I cried after we hung up.

Each word was a knife. Erica had been so alone.

Six months married:

I asked Gerald if he loved me. He said, “I respect you.”

Not the same thing.

One year anniversary:

Gerald gave me diamond earrings. We had dinner at a nice restaurant. He checked his phone seventeen times. I counted.

Three months married:

Our wedding night, he called me by another woman’s name. He was drunk and didn’t remember in the morning.

But I remembered.

My vision blurred. “Riley.”

He’d called her “Riley”.

I flipped to the last entry, my hands shaking.

To my daughter,

My breath hitched.

This wasn’t just a diary entry. It was a “letter”. To Cynthia.

I shouldn’t read it. I couldn’t.

But my eyes moved over the words anyway.

My darling Cynthia,

If you’re reading this, you’re old enough to understand that love isn’t always neat or fair. Your father and I… we weren’t what people call a love match. But I want you to know that doesn’t mean you weren’t wanted. You were the one good thing in a marriage that was never supposed to be.

I hope you grow up surrounded by laughter. I hope you find a love that doesn’t leave you wondering if you’re enough. I hope you’re braver than I was.

And if you ever feel like you don’t belong, remember this: you were loved before you even took your first breath. More than anything in this world.

I Love You.

Your mother.

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

Erica had known. She’d known Gerald didn’t love her. Known she was second best. And she’d stayed anyway.

For Cynthia.

I pressed the journal to my chest, my body racking with silent sobs.

This woman, this stranger had loved her daughter enough to endure a loveless marriage. Had loved her enough to let go of her own happiness.

And I’d stolen her life.

A soft cry came from the nursery. Cynthia.

I wiped my face and stood, tucking the journal back into its hiding place. I’d read the rest later. Right now, Cynthia needed me.

Erica’s daughter needed me.

*******

I found her fussing in her crib, her tiny fists waving in the air. The second I lifted her, she quieted, her dark eyes locking onto mine.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She cooed, her hand curling around my finger.

In that moment, the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming wrongness of all this faded into something simpler.

Something real.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered.

And for the first time since waking up in this body, I meant it.

*******

That evening, I sat in the solarium, Cynthia dozing in my arms, and watched the sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink.

Gerald still wasn’t home.

I should’ve been used to it by now. But the hollow ache in my chest wouldn’t fade.

Mrs. Beatrice brought me a tray; tomato bisque, a grilled cheese sandwich, a glass of water with lemon. “Mr. Roth called,” she said quietly. “He won’t be home for dinner.”

I nodded, staring out the window.

She lingered for a second, like she wanted to say something. Then she left.

The soup had gone cold by the time I heard the front door open.

Footsteps. A muffled voice, James, probably, updating Gerald on his schedule. Then the study door clicked shut.

He was home.

And he wasn’t coming to see me.

I should’ve let it go. Should’ve gone to bed, pretended I didn’t care.

But I didn’t.

I handed Cynthia to Paulette, my pulse hammering. “Can you….?”

“Of course, ma’am,” she said, already taking her. “Go.”

I didn’t let myself think. I just walked.

The study door was closed. I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again, louder.

“Come in.”

Gerald’s voice was tired. Resigned.

I turned the handle.

He sat behind his desk, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up. A glass of whiskey sat untouched beside him. He didn’t look up.

“You’re home,” I said stupidly.

“Obviously.”

I ignored the bite in his tone. “You missed dinner.”

“I had work.”

“You always have work.”

That got his attention. His head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a second, I saw something raw there; pain, exhaustion, something broken before his mask slipped back into place.

“What do you want, Erica?”

“Riley.” I wanted to scream. “It’s me. It’s always been me.”

But I couldn’t.

So I said the only thing that mattered. “Your daughter missed you.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“She’s not a meeting, Gerald. She’s your child.”

He stood so fast his chair scraped against the floor. “I am well aware of what she is.”

“Are you?” My voice cracked. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure doesn’t look like it.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “What do you want from me?”

The truth. You. A second chance.

“I want you to try,” I said instead. “Just… try.”

He looked away, his hands clenching into fists on the desk. “You don’t get to lecture me about trying.”

“Why not?”

“Because you checked out of this marriage a long time ago!” he snapped. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look at me like I’m a stranger? The way you….”

He cut himself off, his chest heaving.

I stepped closer. “The way I what?”

“Nothing.” He rubbed his temples. “Just go, Erica.”

“Gerald.”

He flinched at the way I said his name. Like it was a wound.

I reached for him before I could stop myself, my hand brushing his arm.

He froze.

Because Erica never touched him. Not like this.

His eyes dropped to my hand, then back to my face. Searching. Seeing.

For a heartbeat, I thought he knew.

Then he pulled away.

“Goodnight, Erica.”

I left before he could see the tears in my eyes.

*******

Later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Gerald’s side was still empty. Still cold.

I rolled over and buried my face in Erica’s pillow.

It smelled like her perfume. Like home.

And for the first time, I let myself cry.

Not for me.

For her.

For the woman who’d loved a man who couldn’t love her back.

For the mother who’d never get to hold her daughter again.

For the life I’d stolen.

And the one I’d thrown away.