My hands trembled as I stood outside Porter’s front door, clutching the bottle of red wine I’d brought for Christmas dinner. Sixty-two years old, and I still felt like the nervous young bride I’d been nearly forty years ago whenever I had to face my ex-husband’s scrutiny. The December wind off the New Jersey Turnpike cut through my wool coat, but the chill I felt had nothing to do with the weather.
I should have stayed home. I should have said I was sick, or that I had other plans, or that the roads were too icy to drive from my little apartment in Newark out to this wealthy suburb of stately colonials and manicured lawns. But when my eldest called three weeks ago and actually sounded like he wanted me there, something in my chest had loosened with hope.
Maybe this year would be different. Maybe after four years of cold shoulders and missed calls, my children were finally ready to accept that their mother deserved happiness too. The mahogany door swung open before I could knock.
Porter stood there in his expensive charcoal suit, the same one he’d worn to court during our divorce proceedings. Even at sixty-five, he still carried himself like the successful New Jersey attorney he was—shoulders back, jaw set in that way that had once made me feel protected, but now just made him look arrogant. “Francine.”
His tone was neutral, but I caught the slight curl of his lip as his eyes traveled from my department-store dress to my sensible shoes.
For a moment I could almost see the invisible checklist in his head—hair, makeup, clothes—ticking off all the ways I failed to measure up. “You’re early.”
“Traffic was lighter than expected.” I held up the wine, a twenty-dollar bottle that had felt adequate when I’d picked it out at the ShopRite near my apartment, but now seemed pathetic next to the crystal chandelier glittering behind him. “Merry Christmas, Porter.”
He stepped aside without taking the wine, and I walked into the house that had been mine for thirty-five years.
Everything looked exactly the same. The marble floors I’d spent countless hours mopping on my hands and knees. The antique furniture I’d carefully polished every week.
The grand staircase where we’d posed for family photos every Easter and Christmas. The gallery of framed pictures lining the hallway—except now, every image had been carefully edited by time and scissors to exclude me entirely. Voices drifted from the dining room, and my stomach clenched with familiar anxiety.
