Wendy
After Sabrina left, I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in the sunroom with the leather-bound photo album resting across my knees.
The house was quiet as I turned another page carefully.
Old photographs stared back at me like fragments from someone else’s life.
There she was again…
Old Wendy.
A woman with bold red lipstick and sharp heels and a laugh that looked too loud to fit inside this silent mansion. In every picture, she stood in the center of rooms. Chin lifted. Eyes bright. One hand usually wrapped around a champagne glass while the other pointed somewhere ahead like she was always in motion. Always leading. Always becoming.
It was strange. Looking at her should have felt alienating. Instead, it made something painful ache beneath my ribs.
Pride. Loss. Longing
