Her name was Sienna.
Twenty-six, employed in Logan’s marketing department.
He claimed she made him “feel alive again.”
I nearly laughed, not from amusement, but because it sounded like dialogue from a terrible movie.
As Logan described his wonderful future, I stared at my coffee mug.
Our daughter had made it in sixth grade.
Its painted letters were crooked, its handle chipped, and its yellow flower resembled a small explosion.
I couldn’t look away.
That imperfect mug represented everything Logan had forgotten.
Our life.
Nineteen years of birthdays, school plays,
