"Time for yourself? Patricia, your entire life is time for yourself. You don't work that much. You don't have responsibilities—"
There it was. The core rot. The thing that had hollowed them out for years.
She walked to the window instead of to him. The lawn outside was perfect, manicured within an inch of its life. A postcard of a life she didn't want anymore.
"You really don't see me at all, do you?"
"What are you talking about now?"
"My middle name," she said. "What is it?"
He blinked. "This is— Patricia, come on."
"Try."
Silence. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing.
"It's Mercy," she said. "Patricia Mercy Sullivan. You've signed that name a hundred times and you don't even know it."
"These are trivial details—"
"What did I major in at college?"
His silence this time felt like a confession.
"What was my mother's name? What did she die from? How old was I? What am I allergic to? What medication do I take every morning? What nightmare have I had since I was eight?"
