Days passed before she spoke again. Not about the reunion, not about the books — just small words about dinner, the kids, the house. But the distance remained.
I realized then the box hadn’t just contained her novels. It contained proof of everything I had failed to see. Proof that she was more than the role I confined her to. Proof she didn’t need my permission to shine.
And the worst part? She had wanted to share it with me. She had wanted me to be proud. But I crushed that hope with one careless sentence.
Now, every time I see those books on the shelf, I feel the weight of that box all over again. Heavy, not because of paper and ink, but because of the truth inside:
She had built something extraordinary. And I had almost destroyed it.
