And yet, barely six months after our divorce was finalized, he invited us to his wedding at a country club outside Dallas.
Not just me.
Our son, too.
At first I laughed. Then I almost threw the invitation away.
But my son, Noah, found it on the counter and asked quietly, “Are we really invited?”
I said yes.
He stared at the envelope for a moment before saying, “I want to go.”
“Why?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I want to see if he acts differently when we’re there.”
No ten-year-old should talk like that.
But I said yes.
The wedding was exactly what Ethan had always wanted: perfect, expensive, theatrical. White roses everywhere. A string quartet. Guests dressed for the pictures, not for comfort.
His girlfriend, Lila, was younger, impeccably made up, smiling as if she thought she’d won something.
Noah stood beside me during the ceremony, silent and attentive. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t complain. He just watched.
I should have known then that something was coming.
At the reception, we were seated at a table in the back, with distant relatives and coworkers who knew perfectly well who I was but avoided looking at me. I kept my composure, focusing on Noah as I ate slowly, as if I were conserving energy.
Then the speeches began.
Ethan took the microphone, a glass in his hand, radiating confidence. He started with the usual clichés: destiny, second chances, perfect timing. People laughed when they were supposed to.
