Then whispered,
“Maybe I want him to prove something.”
That was why I RSVP’d yes.
Not revenge.
Not curiosity.
Hope.
Stupid, stubborn hope that Ethan might look at our child during the happiest day of his life and remember what he had abandoned.
I underestimated him.
PART TWO
The Recorder
My mother, Margaret Bennett, died seven months after my divorce.
Cancer.
Fast.
Merciless.
She had been my emergency contact, babysitter, truth-teller, financial adviser, and the person who could still make me feel twelve years old simply by saying my full name.
Ethan came to the funeral.
He stayed nineteen minutes.
Sophia waited in the car.
Lucas noticed.
Of course he did.
After Mom’s death, I placed boxes from her apartment in our garage.
Her scarves.
Recipe cards.
Photo albums.
Old birthday decorations.
Cassette tapes.
Christmas ornaments.
And one silver digital recorder she had used because arthritis made writing difficult.
Mom recorded grocery lists.
Doctor questions.
Story ideas.
Messages to herself.
Sometimes messages to me.
I could not bring myself to listen.
Then one Saturday, two months before Ethan’s wedding, Lucas and I started sorting boxes.
He found the recorder inside a canvas bag.
“What’s this?”
“Grandma’s.”
“Does it still work?”
“Probably not.”
He pressed the power button.
The screen flickered.
“Still works.”
“Of course it does. Your grandmother could keep electronics alive through intimidation.”
Lucas smiled.
Then he began scrolling through old recordings.
