At Christmas.
At every gathering where my name came up.
Allison.
The woman Grant had foolishly married.
The woman the family had finally gotten rid of.
I stood several feet away holding my purse, a manila folder, and the freshly stamped court papers.
I kept my face still.
Eyes forward.
Then Patricia walked toward me.
I smelled her perfume before she reached me.
Floral.
Expensive.
Overpowering.
After eight years, I had learned to associate that scent with every occasion when Patricia intended to remind me how little she thought of me.
“You should be grateful Grant put up with you for as long as he did,” she said with a smile. “Some women simply don’t know when they’ve been replaced.”
Replaced.
She finally said it openly.
I already knew about the other woman.
I had known for almost a year.
First came the hotel receipt in Grant’s blazer.
