the stove. I needed the room, not a symbolic act of revenge. Much of separation consisted of quietly reclaiming space.
Then August brought an ivory wedding invitation. My cousin Allison, forty-three and marrying for the first time, wanted a small celebration. Our mothers were sisters; we had grown up close. Her Saturday ceremony would take place at a church north of Columbus, followed by a buffet reception for seventy-two at the Hawthorne Hotel near Polaris. No orchestra, chandeliers, or ballroom, merely a sensible hotel where visiting relatives could stay overnight.
