Everything here is mine. The beaded cushions on the sofa. The vase on the table. The color-coded books in the bookshelf. I chose them. I paid for them. I placed them. This was my space. My home. But then he made fun of my cushions, he bought me flowers for that vase, he teased me about the books in the bookshelf. Now everything mine has become his, and I’m not sure when or how that happened. Amy’s house is full of photographs of her and David, but I don’t have any photographs of us, so our memories are in the items. I thought that made the relationship more intimate, but Ruth said it was
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