Behind the Venue, My Husband Handed Me a Scrapbook Pulled From the Dumpster

by treating them as misunderstandings. “There must have been some confusion,” she said. “Someone on the staff—”

“The staff,” I said, “didn’t spend three months making these. Emma did.”

I pulled up the voice recording.

Barbara’s face, when she saw my thumb hovering over the play button, went through several expressions in rapid succession.

“Don’t,” she continue reading …