as though it were counting my humiliation aloud.
Seventeen place settings waited on the table.
Seventeen chairs.
Seventeen names written in my own handwriting.
Laura.
Michael.
Fiona.
Their spouses.
My eight grandchildren.
And at 8:40 p.m., I was still standing there alone in my green velvet dress, touching the pearl necklace Richard had given me on our thirtieth anniversary and pretending the next headlights would turn into my driveway.
They never did.
It was not the snow.
It was not traffic.
It was not some last-minute emergency.
My
