If you retrace your steps you can find what you lost, right?  She thought, her eyes determined but her body immobile.

The ceiling fan rotated slowly above her in the dim loneliness of her living room. She needed to turn on a light, the sun was going down and the darkness of winter seemed to seep through the walls. It hadn’t snowed yet but according to the calendar winter began yesterday.

She stood up slowly and walked across the room to the kitchen. The first floor of her home had an open floor plan. It would be easier for when she had kids, she had decided when she bought it a year ago. She still had no children.

The kitchen was well equipped but still felt like it was lacking. The stainless steel refrigerator was semi new, she had purchased it only two months ago. She had received all sorts of tools and appliances as gifts when she moved in but she couldn’t remember the last time she actually used them. She rested her hands on the kitchen island. The blond wood was clean and had been untouched since yesterday afternoon. She was rarely up for cooking anymore.

She walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet above her head to pull down a mug. The stainless steel faucet was cold and heavy in her hand. It wasn’t until that moment she realized she hadn’t turned the heat on today. She filled the mug and drank from it slowly while standing in front of the sink. A house plant to her right on the counter looked thirstier than she felt, so she emptied the cup into its’ soil.

What am I doing? she wondered, walking back to the living room. There were coasters, but she placed the empty mug directly on the coffee table anyway.

The house was empty. She got paint for the walls last month but hadn’t gotten around to actually painting yet. The floors were made of grey wood and had random white rugs here and there in an attempt to make the house feel cozy. The furniture was all so new. Nothing had marks on it, nothing was impacted by the life she had hoped the, the future she had planned.

“What am I looking for?” she asked aloud. Her voice was quiet as though she were telling a secret she didn’t want the kitchen to overhear.

There was a loud ringing. It was her cellphone in her back pocket. She took it out and looked at the caller ID. Her mother was calling her.

“Hi, mom,” she said absently. She didn’t mean to sound as empty as she felt, she simply couldn’t control it.

“Sweetie, hello. How are you?” her mother’s voice was strained from trying to sound overly-happy.

“I’m fine. How are you?” she knew her response sounded cold from the way her mother inhaled slowly before speaking.

“Oh, you know me, always busy. Hey, I was thinking, I have the night free, do you want to get dinner? I haven’t seen you for such a long time.”

“Mom, I’m sorry, I can’t. I have plans,” she lied. She hated lying to her mother.

“No, you don’t sweetie. Please, we need to talk about what happened.”

What happened. What she had lost. How could she talk about something that didn’t exist anymore? Why would talking about pain make it go away? How can words fill an ever expanding chasm of emptiness inside a person’s heart?

“Mom, I can’t,” she could barely get the words out. She heard her mother crying softly on the other side of the phone.

“You don’t have to talk. At least let me come over,” her mother reasoned. At her mothers words, she looked at the unlocked front door and realized she didn’t have the strength to lock it anymore.

“Yeah. The door is open,” she had to sit down on the couch. Her body shook with sobbing that would come.

“I’ll be right over, sweetie. I love you,” her mother said. She hung up the phone.

She couldn’t talk to anyone. The only person she could have talked to had left her last month. The phone call had come to her workplace, and everything after that was a blur. He must have been pushed by someone, other people suggested. She knew he had been alone. Some rumors said it was an accident, said he had been drinking and wasn’t thinking clearly. She knew that he hadn’t though, never in her years of knowing him had he ever let alcohol cross his lips.

He did, however, let words escape his sober lips. She had built her life on his promises that were apparently nothing but words. They’d have a house and three kids. They’d adopt a dog and would have barbeques in the summer. Winter mornings would mean hot chocolate in pajamas in front of the fireplace. There would be dance classes, school concerts, little league games and family pictures. There would be something.

There was nothing you could have done.

I can’t believe he would do that to himself, to you.

How could you not have known?

How could you not have known?

How could you?

How?

Her mother entered the house. Neither of them said anything, both knowing how empty words were and how they were no reflection of what was actually happening inside a person. She watched her mother turn on lights. The kettle was filled and a cup of tea was placed in her hands, an arm draped over her shoulder.

Her mother was beautiful. She wished she could say it, but she was afraid if she tried to speak she’d accidentally say his name. There was anger inside of her, but there was also sadness and disappointment and confusion and love that she couldn’t give anyone anymore. They were both silent, but their combined silence made the room buzz. Both were thinking things neither could understand. Finally her mother spoke.

“I can’t pretend to know how you feel.”

“I know,” she whispered back. She grasped clumsily for her mother’s hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing hard. Tears were coming and she knew if she let them out she’d empty herself of everything she had left.

“I’m so sorry,” her mother said. Her hand ached from her daughters’ grip, but she did not let go. Her daughter thought her mother’s voice was beautiful.

“I loved him,” she said, hating herself for having said it because the crying started.

It wasn’t violent sobbing or simple wet eyes. It was the kind of constant crying that tires you to your core, the kind that would feel like it ended but would start again in waves. She cried, and cried, and cried. It was over an hour until she stopped. Without the sounds of crying, the entire house was empty again.

She was tired, her mother saw. Her mother left and went into the bedroom, stripping the bed of it’s comforter and sheets, and brought it back out to the cold living room. She gave her daughter the bedding and collected the lap blankets for herself. She sat down in the armchair next to the loveseat, settling in for the night. The lights were off and sleep was coming for them both. The last thing the mother felt before she slept was her daughter grasping for her hand and holding onto it tightly.