That night, Adrian and I went home, ordered soup from the deli, and sat in bed eating bread from paper bags.
At two in the morning, I finally said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making our marriage smaller so my family couldn’t touch it.”
“It wasn’t small,” he said.
“You know what I mean.”
He took my hand.
“I don’t want you to tell people because you’re ashamed of secrecy. I want you to tell people because you’re proud of your life.”
I looked around our apartment.
The chipped bowl from Adrian’s failed pottery class.
The photo from Peru.
The blanket he stole every night.
It was not glamorous.
It was ours.
And I was proud.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Sophie.
I found something you need to see.
Another followed.
It’s about the email I sent in January.
Then a third.
It wasn’t sent to your old account by mistake. Dad forwarded it there after I gave it to him with the wedding documents.
I sat upright.
Adrian looked at me.
“What?”
I handed him the phone.
Sophie’s fourth message appeared.
Clara, I think Dad made sure you never saw it.
Suddenly, the unanswered invitation was no longer a misunderstanding.
It was a choice someone had made for us.
