It was the knowledge that while I was sitting alone in a house I had helped pay for, they were clinking glasses at the Skyline Grill, the kind of place where the cheapest entrée started at eighty-five dollars.
I opened Instagram even though I should not have.
There they were. Daniel in his white shirt, the one I had ironed that morning. Emily in a fitted red dress, smiling like she owned the room. My grandchildren making faces over plates of shrimp and fries. My sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, even Emily’s mother. Everyone but me.
The caption read, “Celebrating my queen’s promotion, regional manager at 34. Here’s to women who never stop.”
Hundreds of likes were already rolling in.
I closed the app. I left the phone on the table. I looked at my soup getting cold.
And then something strange happened.
I did not cry. I did not scream. I did not throw anything. A cold, steady calm came over me, as if my body had accepted something my mind was still trying to understand. I stood up slowly, walked to my room, and opened the closet.