Memory has a vicious way of showing up all at once when you are hurt. Garrett at five, feverish and sleeping against my shoulder while I sat upright on the couch all night because he could breathe better that way. Garrett at sixteen, humiliated after his first heartbreak, asking me if there was something wrong with him. Garrett at thirty, bringing Marissa home and looking so proud and hopeful that I had told myself I would love anyone who made that expression appear on his face.
And now this.
You weren’t invited.
My wife doesn’t want you there.
I stared across the room at the glossy brochure still lying on the coffee table from River Ridge Estates, the riverfront development where Garrett and Marissa had bought their new townhouse six months earlier. The photograph on the front showed white trim, a neat brick walk, flower boxes under wide windows, and the suggestion of water in the background, all soft blues and golds like a promise.
A promise I had helped pay for.