The invite landed in my letterbox on a Tuesday, wedged between glossy catalogs and bills stamped with “Final Notice” in red.

My fingers traced a familiar name above the return address on the back. Not meant for me, yet impossible to ignore as I approached my apartment door. Questions swirled, unspoken words settling in my gut like grains of sand.

I paused by the kettle, drew in a deep breath, and ripped it open to reveal the pale blue card inside. The intricate script held weight. Turf it? Burn it? Pretend it never existed? Steam rose from the kettle. My hands trembled while pouring bubbling water into my teapot, and clarity, slow and inevitable, settled among the tea leaves.

Returning the card to its envelope, I folded it, and closed my eyes. The faint hum of the refrigerator pulled me back to evenings crouched over my coffee table, highlighting transactions on a bank statement. Each mark tightened the knot forming in my chest, yet deep down I still yearned for the one who had caused it.

Three weeks passed, but it all began in that quiet room, where I’d planned, and a choice took root.
One I followed here.

A darkened restaurant, with its linen tablecloths and rich aroma of seared steak and roasted lamb—a fitting venue for a celebration. The sort of place where flutes of bubbling wine and goblets of full-bodied reds disguised whispered confessions.

Voices mingled with background music. My hands skimmed the pale blue ribbons draped along the banister leading to the mezzanine.

I paused halfway, peering down at the gown I wore.

After months of quiet discipline, counting calories until that warm velvety chocolate on a winter’s day became a distant memory—I was ready. Everything hung on this dress. Beaded crystals started at its neckline, tracing along my curves before unfurling into delicate swirls along the hem. Everything about it radiated confidence; like how refracted light glowed against the ocean-blue fabric like waves when I walked.

The next tread creaked when I stepped forward. I flashed a sharp smile.

There’s nothing quite like crashing a wedding rehearsal dinner … especially when you know the groom intimately … perhaps too intimately.

Eyes turned towards me, followed by wooden chairs scraping along polished floorboards, gasps, and the distinct echo of breaking glass.

My gaze fell upon fragments of shattered glass, glinting in the only light source.

“Pamela? You shouldn’t be here … how?” he asked.

“Who are you?” A voice to my side asked.

“Why … didn’t Richard tell you?” I asked, with a sharp edge to my voice.

I didn’t turn away. My stare fixed on Richard, tall, with polished cufflinks I knew were plated brass, not gold, and that lopsided smile I once found charming.

Pulled from my stare by a sharp hiss, I turned towards a young brunette. She hovered above the shattered glass, holding one hand, staring down at the floor where red droplets, tiny streaks against polished boards, spilled like secrets.

Crouched there among splinters of glass, she appeared like a fragile bird, and I hesitated. But only for a moment, before my eyes softened when I met hers.

“I’m his wife.”

I let the words hang in the air, uttered one last time, releasing me from their toxic grasp. From my clutch, I pulled out the envelope and dropped it onto the nearest table. It landed with a dull thud.

The solicitor’s seal, a dark shape in the half-light, reflected both a promise and an ending.