My mother-in-law left me home with noodles but called demanding I pay for her party—until she discovered the house wasn’t hers to celebrate in

our anniversary out of the wardrobe, had it pressed, polished his shoes, and went to get his hair cut.

Nobody asked me what I was going to wear.

Nobody told me what time we were leaving.

Nobody saved me a seat.

At first I wanted to believe they had simply forgotten, that they were distracted, that Santiago would soon say, “Get ready, we’re leaving.” But continue reading …