The house glittered with banners, the first graduation in our family since my brother died. Laughter braided with old grief as guests spilled across the lawn. My husband hovered near the grill, smiling for photos but not for me. When the speeches began, our son thanked “everyone who believed in me.” I waited for the shared squeeze of his hand. Instead, my husband’s phone lit up—her name, the one I’d suspected, bright as a flare.
I walked the platter of cupcakes to the table, set it down, and felt the decision settle like a final period. After the toasts, I pulled him aside behind the lilacs. “After tonight, we’re done,” I said. He opened and closed his mouth, the way a fish learns about air.
Inside, music rose. Our son danced. One chapter ended. Another, finally, began.
