I feel the blood draining from my face as the police officer confirms our worst nightmare,“The case has gone cold, it’s going to be shelved. I’m sorry Mr. and Mrs.Smith”.

I’m still trying to understand the meaning when my wife, Aggie asks, “What? You can’t do that yet. My baby is alive, I know she is, officer”.

The officer, Bill, looks down, not looking at us in the eye. “I am really sorry, Mrs. Smith. I am really afraid we can’t do anything against protocol”.

Aggie, with tears in her eyes, pleads “Please officer. Just a few days more, I am sure you will get a lead”.

The officer just shakes his head in apology but his face remains impassive.

I am about to say something comforting, when she grabs my hand and guides me back towards our car, a taxi. My eyes find her face, blank and stony that I bet is hiding a whirlwind of emotions. I drive us back home, devastated and hopeless.

We're two blocks away when Aggie breaks the silence, "You know what this means Ben, don't you?". I try to hold back the tears as I drive, "Yes". She's about to break down, "I can't do this anymore. I tried, I tried Ben". I gulp and try to calm her down, "I guess it's time to move on Agg". She gasps as my mind races back to a conversation topic we've been having regularly over the past month. Separation.

We're in the doorway hanging our coats when Aggie whispers those same words again, "I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I tried Ben." as she blinks back the tears, willing them to go away, begging herself to not break down for one last time as we part ways. I acknowledge, "You were right, this is for the best" and head to the kitchen to grab a chilled beer to drown myself in.

I settle on the battered old couch in the living room and look at the beer bottle that’s starting to come to room temperature in my hand. A war within me continues to rage, Should I let her go? Or should I plead with her to stay? We could try to persuade those police officers tomorrow or we could hire a detective. But, I know what she'll say, after all we've had this conversation a hundred times now. My mind replays one of her replies, "You can't do this to yourself. We can't do this Ben, we have to move on".

I hear her footsteps recede, probably towards our bedroom at the end of the right hallway. I know she’s thinking if this is right, if moving on is something we should do or not. After all these questions have been at the back of my mind for sometime now too. I don’t think she’s staying this time, I can imagine her upturned onyx eyes battling against the onset of tears as she packs all her belongings in a single battered black suitcase. The same black suitcase she brought all her belongings in, when we got married.

I can't do this anymore too, not to me and especially not to Aggie. My eyes wander towards the collections of photographs on the mantelpiece. The frames we made together from old cardboard and put our memories in. Memories neatly arranged as time progressed , memories that rip me to shreds every time I look at them, memories that we were supposed to cherish for all our lives.

My eyes linger on each one of them. Two vibrant faces stare back at me in the first one, the day Agatha and I got married. We were madly in love and that showed on our faces. Young and free, that is what we were, unlike our present condition. No one would believe those two love birds turned out like this.

It's like a ritual now, my eyes continue to the next one and then the next one, each one throwing a punch to my gut, each one weighing my heart down. But, I look at them anyway. I look at the two happy faces when they bought a new house, we saved every single penny for four years. I look at the photograph where Aggie’s devouring a large pizza with one hand and the other lying on an unmistakable baby bump.

The next photograph has our angel, Jacie, two months old and weighing as much as a six month old. She was our life, our connecting cord, she completed us. The next couple of photographs are a timeline of Jacie’s growth. Jacie making thanksgiving cards at three, winning a race at nine and getting the best project award at twelve. My breath hitches as my eyes land on the last one, three smiling faces, Aggie, Jacie, and I, a photograph taken on a warm sunny day on the beach, just a week before our Jacie went missing.

A thud brings me back to the present and I tear my eyes away from that last happy memory we had together. Aggie lingers around the doorway, dressed in shades of brown, her luggage beside her. I offer, "I can drop yo-" but she cuts me, "I'll manage". Her eyes don't meet mine as she makes it official, "The papers will be sent by post" voice so soft against those harsh words.

I stay fixed on the couch in the living room, staring at an old stain on the maroon carpet that I hadn’t noticed before. I empty the beer bottle and place it beside the couch. I force myself to stay fixed until she leaves, this is the least I can do and then I hear a soft click as she closes the door. I finally sigh as I realize she had the courage to walk away from the expanding abyss left by Jacie's absence from our lives.

I get up and grab another beer from the kitchen. Even though I’m alone now, Aggie’s lemongrass perfume remains in the house in contrast to my cheap cologne. My eyes land on the dining table, gravy and rice, the last meal Aggie made for me and I chuckle as I remember that’s exactly the first meal she made for me, twenty years ago. It’s strange how I remember such details that have no significance.

My heavy footsteps head back to the dull couch in the living room with another open beer bottle. I settle on the soft couch and my eyes wander towards the ceiling as I whisper “One thousand eight hundred and thirty six”. That’s the number of days that have passed since Jacie went missing. And then I softly add, “And zero” to mark Aggie’s departure from my life.

Yesterday