Chapter 5: The Last Supper

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4

When Derek came home, I had just finished serving the last dish—meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

The scent filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, but I couldn’t help feeling it was the last supper for a life I no longer wanted.

"Here's the prescription. From now on, you'll need to go to the pharmacy once a week to get the medicine," he said, handing me the slip.

He pushed it across the table like it was just another errand, as if my life’s trajectory wasn’t about to change completely.

"I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. Let's go to the photo studio together tomorrow and take a picture."

He said it so casually, but I felt the weight of ritual—the old American tradition of the family photo before a big separation, proof that we were together, even if only in memory.

I remembered my previous life. Before he left, he also dragged me to take a photo. For the next ten years, he lived freely, while I spent my days with that photo—taking care of his parents, raising our child, and sacrificing my own future.

I’d kept that picture on my dresser, the corners curled from years of handling. I used to stare at it in the dark, willing myself to believe we were still a team.

I forced a smile. "Alright."

I pushed back my chair, rehearsing my calm face. Inside, my thoughts raced: Let’s see if you can find me tomorrow.

While eating, I asked, "By the way, did you refund my train ticket?"

My voice was light, but my eyes stayed fixed on my plate.

Derek didn't even look up. "Not yet. I was planning to go this afternoon. Why?"

He always sounded so nonchalant when it came to things that mattered to me.

"Give me the ticket. I'll go refund it myself," I said after a pause. "I happen to have time."

I steadied my voice, careful not to show how much I needed this small bit of control.

"I need to get a certificate this afternoon anyway. I was worried I wouldn't have time to handle the refund."

Derek handed me the ticket.

His fingers brushed mine, but there was no spark, just the chill of habit. I clutched the ticket tight, feeling like I’d just won a battle no one else knew I was fighting.

Holding it, I let out a long sigh of relief.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my purse, out of sight, out of Derek’s reach.

That afternoon, after Derek left, I took out everything in the house we didn't need. I gave away what I could and sold the rest—old lamps, a chipped coffee table, even the faded recliner.

The Formica table was littered with coupons from the Sunday Tribune and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. The Salvation Army truck idled outside while I sorted through our things. Each item was a memory—a wedding gift, a thrift store find, a relic from our first apartment. Letting them go felt like shedding a skin.

The driver gave me a sympathetic smile as he loaded the boxes, country music drifting from his truck’s radio.