The message arrived with the clinical buzz of a flatlining heart monitor. **“I’m his next wife.”** It was accompanied by seventy attachments, a digital avalanche of betrayal sent from my stepsister, Lena. The notification bloomed across my screen while I was standing in a ridiculously long line at a Starbucks in downtown Seattle, half-awake and clutching a venti latte—Mark’s favorite, the one with an extra shot and a ridiculously specific amount of foam.
My world, once a carefully constructed edifice of shared dreams and nine months of engagement, fractured right there between the hiss of the espresso machine and the smell of burnt coffee. By the time I shuffled forward to the counter, my hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped my phone. The barista asked for my name. I couldn’t remember it.
