My husband canceled my flight home three hours after I buried my mother, handed my boarding pass to his mistress, and told me to stand at the gate and watch them leave without me. I was still wearing the black dress from the funeral, and the smell of rain and lilies clung to the fabric. Grant had not come to the cemetery, had not held my hand, and had not even called to ask whether I made it through the service. Yet there he was beneath the bright lights of Gate C18, smiling as if my grief had given him the perfect stage.
2026/07/24