A folded sheet of yellow legal paper.
I peeled the tape off with my thumbnail.
I knew the handwriting before I even unfolded it. Big loops. Perfect slant. The same handwriting that’s been on every birthday card my children have ever gotten from their grandmother.
Diane’s.
At the top it said: AGREEMENT. Underlined twice.
I sat down on the floor of the den with my back against the wall. The same wall she’d been measuring with a tape measure two months ago.
For curtains, she’d said.
And I started to read.
But I need to tell you how I got to that floor at three in the morning. Because six hours earlier, I’d been happier than I’d been in four years.
Six hours earlier, the champagne cork smacked the ceiling fan and dropped into the mashed potatoes.
Everybody laughed. My eight-year-old shrieked. My husband, Greg, held the bottle away from the tablecloth while it foamed all over his hand.
