For one split second I almost answered honestly, and then the instinct to survive overruled the instinct to be fair.
“No,” I said. “I forgot.”
He chuckled lightly.
“Well, maybe we’ll handle that this weekend.”
Maybe, I thought, if hell can notarize documents.
That night Greg called again.
“They’re planning a party,” he said.
“What kind of party?”
“Private room in Lombard. Saturday night.” He paused. “Engagement celebration.”
I sat very still.
Tom had not even filed yet, and he was already rehearsing his next life in public.
Then Greg added the detail that made the decision for me.
“They’re inviting people who know you.”
There are few things more clarifying than realizing someone intends not only to replace you, but to do it in front of witnesses who can later be told you were difficult, unstable, already gone, already impossible. A public narrative is a kind of theft too.
“Good,” I said.
Greg sounded surprised. “Good?”
“Yes,” I told him. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going to finish this.”
Saturday evening came with soft falling snow, the kind that makes parking lots look harmless. The banquet room sat over a small Italian restaurant in Lombard, tucked between a nail salon and a travel agency. I had passed it a dozen times over the years and never once thought it might someday host the collapse of my marriage in public.
I sat in my car for a minute before going in. Not to build courage. To empty myself of everything unnecessary. Screaming would help no one. Crying would confirm what Tom wanted the room to think. I was not there to perform pain. I was there to place facts where denial could no longer protect them.
Inside, the upstairs room smelled like red sauce, wine, perfume, and overheated ambition. Fake crystal chandeliers. White tablecloths. A low playlist humming through ceiling speakers. Thirty or so people, maybe a few more. Coworkers. Church acquaintances. Neighbors. People who had known Tom and me as a pair for years.
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