He wanted an audience that would quietly compare the polished image he had created for himself with the exhausted reality of the woman he had left behind. He wanted me to appear in that room wearing simple clothes, trying to keep two restless children close to me while his relatives exchanged sympathetic smiles and whispered conversations behind their champagne glasses.
It was not merely an invitation.
It was a stage.
And I was supposed to be the evidence.
I tried to keep my composure.
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