By the time I realized what was happening, Miriam’s voice had already entered my marriage.
For two weeks, I stared at that invitation every night.
My friend Claire found me in my office one afternoon and read the message.
“Delete it,” she said. “You’re not going.”
“If I don’t go, she’ll tell everyone I was too scared to show my face.”
“Let her talk.”
“That’s the problem,” I said quietly. “I always did.”
Claire’s expression softened.
“Then don’t go alone.”
That night, I opened my laptop and did something my tired, wounded mind somehow decided was logical.
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