came to my house.
She stood on my porch.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
I wasn’t ready.
She told me she had read every note in the box after the reception ended.
Every memory.
Every piece of Daniel’s old life.
“I thought I knew him.”
Her eyes dropped.
“I didn’t.”
Then she admitted that she had spent years envying me.
My marriage.
My children.
My family.
“I thought if I had what you had, I’d finally be happy.”
“And?”
She looked at me.
“It turns out what
