You will find it in his pocket when you gather up his jeans and socks from the bedroom floor to add to the load of laundry. At first you’ll toss it into the garbage without even looking at it, then consider perhaps it’s a receipt he needs to save and so you’ll double-check. You will smooth the small slip of white paper open to reveal a name—Alys—and a phone number. What will bother you most is the small heart drawn there at the end. And the fact that it’s his handwriting—you’d know it anywhere—not hers, whoever she is.

You will feel like you are standing at a crosswalk or a fork in the metaphorical road of your life. You’ll look both ways, but only quickly, the slip of paper burning hot on your palm. Then you’ll crumple it up and open your hand to let it fall, down into the trash, landing on top of the salmon skin from last night’s dinner – the putrid, oily thing that’s stinking up the whole house.

Sarah Robinson is an introspective lover of words. A Canadian writer, her work blends insight from her social work career and family life with a deep interest in mindfulness, compassion, and everyday resilience. She writes to explore the interactions and moments that shape both our inner and outer worlds.