Just a week after Jacob moved out, I stood frozen outside the house, staring at his text: “We need to talk.” Same words. Same moment. Another man slipping away. But this time I didn’t wonder why—they always left exactly seven days later.
I stood by the front steps, my boots pounding the concrete like a nervous heartbeat. It was Saturday, but it didn’t feel like it.
The sky was low and heavy, a dull Iowa gray that pressed like a wet blanket. The air smelled of dirt and cold metal.
My fingers circled a cup of coffee, even though the coffee had long since cooled. I wasn’t drinking it anymore. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t stop them.
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Cindy was by my side, as close as ever when things seemed about to fall apart. Her hand rested on my shoulder, warm and firm.
“You’re shaking like a tree in a windstorm,” he said, his voice soft, almost like a song.
“It’s just Jacob. He loves you.”
I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I felt a lump in my throat, as if I’d locked it and thrown away the key.
I was breathing, but barely. As if my lungs didn’t want to make a scene.
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Then, finally, his car pulled into the driveway. The tires crunched on the gravel as if they had a job to do.
Jacob stepped out, tall and full of light, smiling like a man who has just won something worth keeping.
He waved, and it was like something out of a Hallmark movie. Him, me, the little white house behind us… it could have been perfect.
I waved back, stiff and awkward. As if unsure I deserved this moment. My hands were clasped together, my knuckles white, hiding the trembling I couldn’t control.
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“Hey, baby,” Jacob said as he climbed the steps, arms wide open. “We made it! We’re finally moving in.”
“I know,” I replied, trying to smile, even though my face felt frozen. “I’m sorry for being a little… off.”
He hugged me. It was warm. Confident. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” He kissed my temple softly and went straight to the registers as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But I wasn’t okay. Not at all.
Jacob wasn’t the first man to cross this threshold. Two others had arrived before. They’d moved in, smiled, unpacked.
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And then, exactly one week later, they were gone. No fight. No warning. Gone like the wind through the cornfields.
As we carried boxes through the front door, I glanced at Cindy. “This is my sister,” I said to Jacob when we reached the kitchen.
“He’s staying with me until he finds a job.”
She smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you. Don’t worry – family is family.”
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That night, Jacob prepared dinner: grilled pork chops, rosemary potatoes, roasted carrots.
The house smelled like Sunday dinner at Grandma’s. Cindy couldn’t stop talking about how good everything was. She was all smiles and bright eyes.
But in my belly, something coiled tightly. Hope? Fear? Maybe both.
A week later. Like clockwork.
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I sat in my car outside my house, the engine off, but everything inside me was still going. My heart was stuck in my throat, as if I didn’t know where to go.
In the seat next to me, my phone screen glowed with the message that refused to go away:
“We need to talk. Seriously.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel as if it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
The windows had fogged up a little. I could see the porch, the door, the wind moving through the bare trees like whispers I couldn’t hear.
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I didn’t move. For a while, I just stared.
Finally, I opened the door and stepped into the cold.
The wind had become sharp, biting at my cheeks, tugging at my coat as if it wanted me to turn around.
And there it was. Jacob’s suitcase.
Two cardboard boxes were stacked next to me. My mouth went dry. My legs felt too heavy for my body.
Jacob stood there with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking like a kid who had been caught stealing candy.
“Liz…”.
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I raised my hand before he could say anything else.
“No,” I said, sharp and quick. “Let me guess. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Or maybe the classic ‘I’m not ready for this.’ I’ve heard all the stupid lines, Jacob.”
His face tightened, and his lips pressed into a line. “You don’t understand…”
“Then help me understand!” I leaned a little closer. My voice cracked a little.
“Why does this always happen exactly one week after moving? Do I snore like a freight train? Am I too clingy? Is it my bare face? Do I make the worst eggs in the world?”
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He looked toward the porch as if the answers were written on the wood.
“Liz… your sister…” He paused, shook his head. “Forget it.”
Then he picked up a box and headed to his truck.
I didn’t chase him.
That night I sank into the old sofa, the one that still smelled of lavender and popcorn. My tears soaked the cushion.
Cindy sat next to me, stroking my hair.
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“Don’t chase ghosts, Liz,” he whispered. “Men are like rivers. They run their course and then they dry up.”
But his words didn’t sink in. Because, deep down, he knew Jacob had been trying to say something. Something important. Something about Cindy.
The next morning, Cindy left early, saying she had an “interview” across town.
She put on her nicest blouse and even curled her hair, but something about the way she avoided my eyes made my stomach twist.
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As soon as his car disappeared down the road, I waited ten minutes. Just to be sure.
Then I walked into the living room, barefoot, the old wooden floor cold under my feet.
I sat down in front of the dusty monitor on the side table.
It was connected to the garden cameras I had installed two summers ago, back when I thought deer and raccoons were my biggest problems.
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I flashed through the days. Rabbits bouncing like rubber balls. The wind shaking the rosebushes. A squirrel performing acrobatics with a nut.
Then, Jacob.
He was standing next to the flowerbed, watering the petunias. His back was to the camera, his shirt wrinkled and his hair a little messy. He seemed at ease, as if this was his place.
Then Cindy entered the frame.
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She smiled, said something I couldn’t hear. She reached out and placed her hand gently on his arm. I moved closer.
What he said next changed everything.
Jacob froze and released the hose like a snake. Water sprayed wildly as he turned and ran into the house.
I paused the video, staring at the screen. A lump formed in my throat.
That was not normal.
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That was no small talk.
My fingers trembled as I grabbed the phone. I needed the truth. And I was tired of waiting.
That night I waited for Cindy in the living room. The lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow glow that made the shadows stretch across the floor like long fingers.
I stood still, arms crossed, back straight, and eyes cold and penetrating. I wasn’t angry; it was something deeper. I was done.
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Cindy walked through the front door, humming a tune. She kicked off her boots next to the rug and froze when she saw me.
“Is everything okay?” he asked slowly. “You seem… intense.”
“Sit down,” I said, my voice low and level.
She blinked, confused, but did as I said. She sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped in her lap, like a child waiting to be scolded.
“Is this about Jacob?”
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I leaned forward. “I saw the footage. You talked to him in the yard. Then he dropped the hose and ran inside like something had bitten him.”
He shrugged, a bit too quickly. “So? I asked if he needed help watering the flowers.”
“No,” I said, now in a higher pitch.
“You said something to her. And I know it wasn’t about the flowers. I called Jacob. Then I called Rick. And Mark. Wanna guess what they told me?”
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His face changed at that moment, as if glass had broken.
“They’re lying!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “You can’t believe them!”
“I haven’t told you what they told me yet,” I replied in a low voice.
Silence fell between us like a heavy blanket.
“I’ll say it for you,” I continued. “You told Jacob that I compared him to my exes. You told him that I was seeing other men. That I was impossible to please.”
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Cindy’s breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders sagged, like air escaping from a balloon.
“Why?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Why did you do that? Why did you ruin my relationship with every man I let into this house?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Because they would drive us away. If one of them stayed, you’d ask me to leave. You’d no longer need me.”
I stared at her, my heart breaking and hardening at the same time. “I never said that.”
“But you would have,” he whispered. “And I needed you.”
“You’re my sister,” I said, standing up. “But you stabbed me in the back.”
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She fell to her knees, crying. “Please don’t make me leave. We’re better together. You’ll see.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said, cold as ice. “We’re not.”
That night I asked Cindy to leave. There was no shouting or insults. Just silence. She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry.
She went to her room and started packing, folding clothes as if she had all the time in the world.
Her face was blank, empty, as if a light had gone out. Her movements were slow, almost robotic, as if she were too tired to feel anything.
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I sat on the couch and listened to the sounds of zippers and drawers opening and closing.
I didn’t cry. Not then. My heart ached, of course, but the tears wouldn’t come. Maybe I was too numb.
The next morning, I reached for my phone and called Jacob. It rang until it went to voicemail. I hung up without saying anything.
I tried again later. And then again.
Finally, late at night, he answered. His voice was calm. Careful.
I apologized. I explained everything. About the camera. About Cindy. About how I hadn’t seen her before. I begged a little. Okay, maybe more than a little.
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A week passed. Then another.
Then, one quiet Thursday afternoon, as the sun was setting and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon tea, I heard a knock at the door.
Jacob was there. No bags. No boxes. Just him. And two coffees.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, walking in.
“Now then,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him tightly.
This time, I believed it. I believed we’d finally make it through the week.
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