mouth.
Because there it was. The truth, dumb and plain. He had not built a shrine to me. He had built a real life. Messy. Half-finished. Full of another woman, business invoices, sore joints, canned soup, and me tucked into the middle of it like a hidden nail.
What I Did With The Letters
I went back home after dark and read the rest.
All of them.
Not in continue reading …
