Three sentences

I got home and Paula sat on the sofa, hands folded in her lap. Her blonde hair was tied in a tight ponytail, so tight her pale blue eyes practically bulged out of her skull. She always did look like a young Bette Davis. She wore a white collared blouse, a tartan plaid skirt, and her worn black loafers. She looked, more than anything, like a nervous girl sitting in the headmistress's office in private school. Like she'd thrown food at the class tattletale.

She had her suitcase with her. She didn't have to say a word. I knew what was coming. But she said it anyway: how she needed to find herself, how it wasn't about me it was all about her, how she would always love me, how we'd always be friends. Yadda, yadda, yadda. We both knew it was total bullshit, but had to go through the polite formalities, I suppose, so that neither one of us would collapse in hysterical don't-leave-me-I-can't-live-without-you sobs. She left less than five minutes after I got home.

I poured myself a glass of chardonnay and sat in the dining room, looking at the red velvet drapes. She'd done all the decorating and I could never stand it. The Victorian look would have to go, first thing. Then I noticed it. The dining closet was empty. Everything was gone. The fine china, the crystal, the display of my grandmother's silver. All gone. I looked everywhere else, did my inventory. My grandmother had left everything to me for my daughters, but I never had any daughters, only my wife Rebecca and Rebecca had taken the furs, the jewels, even the locket with the 1920s photo of my grandfather, dead before I was even born. I couldn't bear that wherever I looked, it was all gone. I, too, left the house.