Not a word about what had happened that morning.
I texted Graham.
Whatever you’re planning, please don’t humiliate your father.
He replied, We’re not trying to humiliate him, Mom. We just want him to understand.
I wanted to believe him.
But Graham had sounded so disappointed at breakfast that it bothered me more than anger would have.
I spent the next hour cleaning a kitchen that was already clean.
Upstairs, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Without thinking, I opened the drawer where I kept my tweezers and leaned closer.
The hairs were barely visible.
Still, I reached for one.
Then I stopped.
Why was I trying to fix something Wade had broken?
I put the tweezers down.
That didn’t mean I suddenly felt beautiful. I felt 45, tired, and embarrassed.
But I was angry, too.
Not about the hairs.
About how easily my husband had turned a kiss into something shameful.
