word. It was knowing that while I was eating alone in this house I helped pay for, they were toasting with glasses of wine at the Skyline Grill, that place where the cheapest dish costs $85.
I opened Instagram. I shouldn’t have, but I did.
There were the pictures.
My son in his white shirt, the one I had ironed that morning. Emily in a tight red dress, smiling like she owned the world. My grandchildren eating shrimp and making funny faces for the camera.
My sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, even Emily’s mother was there.
Everyone but me.
The caption read, “Celebrating my Queen’s promotion, regional manager at 34. Here’s to women who never stop.” Two hundred and thirty-seven likes in twenty minutes.
I closed the app. I left the phone on the table.
I looked at my soup getting cold.
And then something strange happened.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t
