Cora’s hands shook as she zipped up the red dress—the one Eric had bought her back when they still laughed together. Maybe tonight, over cheesecake and candlelight, he’d see her again instead of just the exhausted mother of their triplets. The gift box held her desperate hope: airline tickets and proof she’d found solutions to their money worries.
But Eric walked in scowling. “You baked when we have dishes piled up?” he’d snapped, shoving past rose petals to rant about frivolity. The unopened gift mocked her from the table as she fled.
Her car crashed three miles from home. At the funeral, their daughter asked why Mommy’s suitcase was packed. Only then did Eric open the box and read Cora’s note: “Let’s find us again under Hawaiian skies.” Now he raises their children with photos of her everywhere, forever wondering what might have been if he’d just looked up from the sink.
