Patrick stood in front of the large wardrobe, hands on his hips, a determined look on his face. It was time. Marianne was a part of his past, and it was time to move on. Keeping her things alongside his own would keep him trapped in the past. Unsure what the future held, he had to step into it.

Opening the wardrobe door, he was overwhelmed by her scent still lingering on her clothes. His throat tightened as he fought to control his breathing. Strange how scent could do that, his logical brain reasoned. He could look at photographs now and not feel the lurch of pain behind his ribs, could see her handwriting and not feel the sting of loss. His mind could see these and shield itself from the memories, but his body had no such defenses.

He clenched his fists and fought for control. He would do this. He would reclaim his life. Marianne was a good wife and friend and would have wanted him to move on. If she could have, he knew she would have packed up her dresses herself at the end;  closed so many doors left open.

A mere half hour later, the wardrobe hung empty, boxes stacked at the door. Patrick looked at the collection of barren hangers, lonely in the space. He turned to the piles of his own clothes, scattered on the sole chair, the dresser, some hanging off the doors and curtain rods. What a mess he had made in his sadness. It was time to take charge again. Methodically, he began to fill the wardrobe with his own clothes. As much of a mess they made scattered around the room, they didn’t take up much space. Determinedly, he created his own place.

It wouldn’t do for Timothy to see the boxes go out. His young mind would assuredly misunderstand, and they had only just begun to heal their own relationship. He had Sister Bernadette to thank for that. The nun had encouraged them to forgive each other for the selfishness of grief. They were resilient, she reminded them, and would survive this.

The last box carried down to the car, Patrick took a last look around the room.His eye caught the glitter of trinkets on her nightstand. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he considered donating her jewelry as well. Nodding, he took her jewelry box from the dresser and ran his fingers across its lid. A small smile graced his face as he placed those last few items inside.

This wouldn’t go. He would save this for Timothy. One day, the boy would want to have pieces of his mother to remember.

Patrick opened the wardrobe again, smiling this time. He placed the jewelry box on the upper shelf, out of the way. He doubted Timothy would see it, but he knew it was there, safe. Marianne did not need to disappear from their lives. She would always be there, over their shoulders, watching.