It was more like a letter than a note. Five pages, neatly typed, and every word true, including the P.S:

You don’t love me Sandra. And you never did.

Now he was gone.

She didn’t re-read it. She didn’t pick up the phone. She certainly didn’t cry.

No time to get sentimental about it.

From picking up the smartly stapled collection of disappointment, regret and anger, to getting in the shower: six and a half minutes. She was still on schedule.

Quickly drying off, she looked at herself in the mirror, and tried out a few smiles for later on – if she was going to be successful in convincing the Board that she was the right person for the job then she couldn’t be looking gloomy.

Why the hell would he throw away this life?

Opening the wardrobe to pick out the dress she would wear to the evening meeting in the city, a small scrap of paper floated out and landed at Sandra’s feet. Tear-stained, in his rushed handwriting, two words:

That’s why.