Page 7 of Broken Destiny

I could still hear his voice.

Still see the nervous smile tugging at his lips.

Still feel the tremor in his hands when he held mine.

Carefully, I peeled one red dot from the strip and pressed it onto the bottom right corner of the photograph.

Mine.

That memory belonged to me… and only me.

Before the night ended,I stood in front of the guests, my heart pounding, trying to find the courage to speak. Faces turned toward me, their expressions gentle and expectant, and I felt the sting of tears gathering behind my eyes.

“First of all, I would like to thank you for attending this special event tonight,” I began, my voice trembling slightly.

I lowered my gaze briefly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over, then lifted my head again to face the crowd.

“Cole Harris was not only my husband but also my best friend and a father to my children. He was a good man and a fantastic artist. I hope you all enjoy the photos and paintings that you have bought. Iwant you to know that each of you holds a piece of Cole.” I paused, letting the words settle into the room, feeling the weight of them sink into my own chest. “Please remember him and cherish the memories you've shared with him every time you look at his work. Thank you.”

A wave of applause followed, gentle and respectful from the people who had come to honour him.

After bidding everyone goodnight, I drove back to the house with the children and Geeta.

The streets were calm, the night air cool, and exhaustion finally began to seep into my bones.

The event Cole had planned had been a success—just as he had hoped, just as he had believed it would be.

Later that night, after I tucked the children into bed and kissed their foreheads, the house fell into silence.

I had been strong all evening—smiling, speaking, comforting others, holding myself together for the sake of my children. They had lost the only father they had ever known. I refused to let them see me crumble under the weight of my grief. I carried that burden quietly, shielding them from the sorrow inside me.

But now, alone in my bedroom, the mask slipped.

Reaching into the closet, I pulled out one of Cole’s old sweaters and slipped it over my shoulders. The fabric hung loosely on my frame.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the picture I had just bought at the gallery. My fingers traced the edges of the frame.

God, I missed him.

The ache inside my chest felt endless.

Slowly, with trembling hands, I reached beneath the pillow and pulled out Cole’s letter—the letter I had read countless times, the one that had become both my solace and my torment.

I held Cole's old letter against my chest as I reached into my purse and pulled out the envelope Marjorie had given me at the gallery.

Carefully, I opened it and began to read.

Sweetheart,

You never knew I took this photograph.

You fell asleep in my arms that night, and for the first time I saw you completely at peace.

I should have been sleeping too, but I couldn't stop looking at you.

I remember sitting there thinking that if I never took another photograph for the rest of my life, I would still have captured something beautiful.

When I woke up and found you gone, I thought I had imagined the entire night.