He had started calling his father by his first name six months ago, after the child support check stopped arriving on the first of the month. I had not corrected him, though my former mother-in-law, Eleanor, always frowned when she heard him say it.
“It is,” I said.
I slid my butter knife under the heavy gold wax seal, trying to keep my hand steady. My bare left ring finger felt cold, and I rubbed the pale band of skin where my wedding ring used to sit. The wax split with a sharp crack that sounded too loud in the quiet kitchen.
Inside was a folded sheet of vellum, thick as cardboard, announcing the wedding of Daniel and Madison. The ceremony was set for the twelfth of November at the Stonebriar Country Club in Frisco. There was a smaller card inside, printed on both sides, listing the registry at a boutique in Highland Park where a single crystal water goblet cost ninety-five dollars.
Ethan watched my face, his dark eyes steady behind his glasses. He did not reach for the paper.
“Is it an invitation for both of us, Mother?” he asked.
His formal voice always made him sound like my late father, Thomas, who had spent forty years surveying the dry county lines of West Texas. He had that same way of standing with his feet wide apart, as if he were waiting for the ground to shift beneath him.
