Chapter 2My Cold Wife Trapped My Soul

I don’t know why, but I had become an invisible presence, able to drift freely.

Just this morning, I had been coherent enough to talk to Serena Ashworth.

She was taking a flight at noon for a major academic conference overseas.

So, I had gotten up at seven to make her breakfast.

For someone so outwardly minimalist and detached, Serena had very specific tastes.

Her sourdough toast had to be just a little crisp, and her milk had to be steaming, not scalded.

My daughter, Paige, used to joke: "Dad, you’ve spoiled Mom with all this meticulous care."

I never argued with her. After taking care of Serena so thoroughly for two or three decades, even the most troublesome tasks had simply become habit.