But Willow made me toss half of those when we moved into the little cabin we’re renting after selling my house to Clara and Greyson.
“You are too young to dress like you’re running for Senate,”she’d said, hands on hips.
So now I’m wearing something that makes me feel like an imposter.
Except.
Not entirely.
It’s a dream of a dress.
One of those wrap dresses, ruched at the waist, hugging my hips and falling just at my knees, a deep neckline that exposes more of my cleavage than I’ve shown off in years.
The color is a dark blue that makes my eyes look brighter.Deeper.
The fabric moves when I walk—soft, fluid.
I like the way it moves.It feels divine.
I just haven’t worn something that celebrates my curves in years.
Mike was always on me aboutgetting healthy.Aboutwatching what I ate.
As if I didn’t already exercise.
As if I didn’t already monitor every bite.
“Fat just likes me,”I used to joke.
It was easier than admitting how much it hurt to hear I wasn’t enough from the man who promised forever.
A small part of me is still mad at him.
Not because he fell out of love.
I’ve done the therapy.
I’ve cried it out with Willow and Clara over wine and tissues.
The truth is, I fell out of love too.
Our marriage became logistics.Routine.Obligation.
But I do blame him for how he did it.
The cheating.
The second mortgage no one knew about.
Draining our joint account.
Stealing Evan’s college fund.
And my fucking minivan of all things.
Those weren’t mistakes of the heart.
Those were choices.
