How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 44

By the time Elodie reached the house, it was nearly nine. Rush hour traffic had eaten up most of her evening.

Cara, the housekeeper, looked surprised to see her. "Mrs. Sinclair, you're back! Have you eaten? Shall I make you something?"

Elodie offered a polite smile. "No need. I'm not staying long—I'll be leaving soon."

Cara's face clouded with concern. "You just got home and you're leaving again? Did you… have a fight with Mr. Sinclair?"

Elodie knelt to open the shoe cabinet, searching for a pair of disposable slippers. "No," she replied simply.

And it was true.

The reality was, Jarrod had a habit of treating her as if she were invisible.

His indifference hurt more than any argument ever could.

Except for the few predictable days each month, they barely spoke at all. Fights? They never happened.

Now, they were simply getting divorced.

Cara had been the housekeeper since their wedding, and she thought she knew Elodie well—thought she was just being stubborn and prideful.

Cara couldn't help but try to coax her. "Mrs. Sinclair, there's no hurdle you can't get over. Couples argue and make up—that's marriage. Didn't you always say so yourself?"

"You love Mr. Sinclair so much, and you're lost without him. If this blows up…"

Would you really be able to back down gracefully?

In the end, you'd just swallow your pride and come crawling back. That's how it always looked.

Elodie paused, momentarily dazed.

So this was how everyone saw her.

She was expected to smile through the pain, to accept everything without complaint, to bend over backwards for Jarrod, no matter what.

No one ever imagined she might be the one to let go.

She pressed her lips together in silence, then changed the subject. "Has he been home lately?"

Cara hesitated. "Not much…"

"I figured. You should get some rest," Elodie said, as if she'd expected nothing else.

Of course Jarrod wasn't coming home.

He had Sylvie now—a warm, welcoming escape. Why would he bother coming back?

Elodie climbed the stairs to the study. The house had two: one was Jarrod's private sanctuary, strictly off-limits. The other, open and airy, was where she liked to read when she had the time.

For three years, she'd kept up with the world, never letting herself fall behind.

She knew every inch of the place—she'd decorated it herself, after all—so she quickly found the book she was looking for on the middle shelf.

Just to be sure, she checked the shelves again, gathering up all the books she wanted to take with her and packing them in a box.