give up everything because you never cried. I thought you were fine. You always seemed fine.”
“I wasn’t always fine, Mom.”
“I know that now,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me thirty-five years and a garden party to see it.”
It’s been a year now.
Last month was what would have been Rachel and Tom’s second anniversary. And my eleventh, with Michael.
I spent it at home. With my kids. We made pizza from scratch and it came out lopsided and burnt on one side, and we ate it anyway on the living room floor with a movie on.
Michael and I are divorced. He lives in an apartment about ten minutes away. He has the kids every
other weekend and on Wednesday nights. He’s a good father. I’ll always say that. He shows up for every soccer game. He sits on the bleachers a few rows away from me and cheers louder than anyone. Once in a while, when Ben scores a goal, Michael looks over at me, and I nod, and he
