My neighbor told me she was going to take my husband.
She wore the tops, brought the cookies, threw the party,
and invited him without me,
so the whole neighborhood could watch her win.
She never knew that for months,
my husband had been bringing every cookie,
every note,
every gift,
home to me,
unopened,
because in seventeen years he’d never kept a secret from me
and wasn’t going to start with her.
So I didn’t scream.
I didn’t fight.
I walked into her barbecue with a gift box,
and I handed her back every failed offering she’d ever made,
with a smile and a thank-you note,
in front of everyone she was trying to impress.
You told me to prepare for divorce, I said.
I’d rather give you back your cookies.
She thought a long marriage was a weakness.
She found out it was the one thing she could never take.
And my husband took my hand in her backyard
and said he’d only come to walk his wife home.
The strongest thing isn’t fighting for what’s yours.
It’s proving, calmly, in a pretty box,
that it was never,
for one single second,
available.
THE END
