Diane arrived like a storm. She read the invitation, then the evidence, and looked at me with blazing eyes.
“He invited you to his wedding on your anniversary?”
“Yes.”
“And he wrote ‘no hard feelings’?”
“Yes.”
Diane dropped the invitation onto the counter like it was contaminated. “Please tell me you’re not going.”
I looked at the invitation. Then the papers. Then my sister.
“I think I am.”
That was the first time in four years I smiled—and it wasn’t a soft smile. It was the kind that comes right before a woman stops apologizing for her existence.
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