We assemble her toys and drink Mimosas, like always. Later, you kiss our cheeks. She’s sleeping; I am not. Then, like Santa, you’re gone.
The door slammed. I know he is gone now. I grab my wine and sip as I sit in the darkness of the silence. It was a means to an end, for him.
There’s a note on my door. I hurry inside and catch the last of my dreams climbing out a window, wearing my now useless wedding gown.
A silicon mask and a fake accent had produced the seemingly impossible: Michael was caught cheating on his wife, by his wife, with his wife.
Ever nonchalant, she texts from her lover’s bed. “On my way home.” Her husband drops white powder into the wine glass and responds: “Gr8”
Looking at the tiny photo, I feel a slight tug of 69 years. My dad: a World War II soldier. Your mom: an officer’s wife. Are you my sister?