She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

had chosen the chair.

He had chosen the mistress.

He had chosen the story he wanted the world to see.

But he had forgotten the oldest truth my mother ever taught me.

A woman who survives long enough will eventually revise the ending.

I looked at my daughter.

I looked at my granddaughter.

Then I picked up my pen.

This time, I signed my own name.

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