Through the open front door, I could see Grant Whitmore, the man I had built my entire adult life around, standing beside the fireplace with one hand in his pocket.
He looked irritated.
Not guilty.
Not nervous.
Irritated.
Like my heartbreak was an inconvenience delaying his evening.
Then a woman stepped into view behind him.
I recognized her immediately.
Savannah Price.
Thirty years old.
Blonde.
Perfect teeth.
Perfect posture.
Perfect little cream-colored dress that looked carefully chosen to say, I already live here.
She had been Grant’s “executive consultant” for nearly a year.
Apparently she had been consulting him on more than business.
Savannah rested one hand on the back of the sofa.
The sofa I had ordered.
In the living room I had decorated.
Inside the home where I had spent eleven years trying to become a mother.
Then Grant’s mother appeared.
Elaine Whitmore.
Pearls.
Silk blouse.
Wine glass.
The same disapproving expression she had worn at every Christmas dinner, birthday party, anniversary brunch, and family vacation since the second year of my marriage.
Elaine looked at my suitcase and sighed.
