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

gray stone under bare branches.

The glass conservatory on the east side caught the pale morning light.

My mother had called it her winter orchard.

Inside, orange trees grew in clay pots.

Glass apples hung from the beams.

As a child, I thought they were magic.

As a wife, I had forgotten magic could be evidence.

We found Graham’s people in the study.

Two men continue reading …