She looked up at me with that flat little stare.
« Fine. Then I think you’re the replacement. »
That word stayed with me for years.
Replacement.
Dinners I’d spent hours preparing somehow « accidentally » ended up on the floor. A pot roast « slipped. » A birthday cake I’d baked for David got knocked off the counter.
I kept showing up anyway.
A pot roast « slipped. »
I drove Emily to dance class, sat through recitals, bought tampons before she had to ask, and cheered louder than anyone at her middle school graduation.
David saw it all. He’d squeeze my hand under the table and whisper, « Thank you. She’ll come around. »
She didn’t.
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