Denise watched me.

What was that?

Nothing important.

For once, I meant it.

By 4:00, Patricia’s first guests were already arriving.

I heard voices downstairs while fastening Denise’s black dress in the guest room.

It fit better than expected. Not perfectly, but enough.

I added pearl earrings, low heels, and a little makeup.

Nothing dramatic.

The blue strip remained around my wrist.

I almost removed it.

Then didn’t.

When I came downstairs, Patricia was arranging crackers on a tray.

She looked up and frowned.

Why are you dressed like that?

I stopped at the bottom step.

Because I’m leaving.

She blinked.

For where?

I considered the question.

The ceremony.

Mark came from the kitchen carrying wine.

Clare.

That tone again, as though my name itself were a warning.

Mom already told everybody you were handling dinner.

I looked at Patricia.

Then mom has created it herself a very interesting evening.

Her friend Linda Harper stood near the dining table and offered me a small, uncertain smile.

Clare honey, are you going somewhere special?

Patricia answered first.

She has some award thing.

Linda looked at me.

“Oh, well, congratulations.”

Thank you.

Patricia made a dismissive sound.

I picked up my purse.

Behind me, Mark asked, “So, what are we supposed to do about dinner?”

I turned.

“Order something.”

Patricia stared.

For 12 people.

“Yes.”

What am I supposed to order?

I glanced at the tray.

“I hear restaurants sell food now.”

Linda coughed into her hand.

I was fairly sure she was hiding a laugh.

Mark wasn’t amused.

Claire, this is childish.

No, Mark. Cutting up somebody’s clothes because you want pot roast is childish.

Patricia tightened her mouth.

I told you why I did it.

Yes, you did.

That was all.

No speech.

No dramatic final line.

I walked out.

And 20 minutes later, I almost turned around.

That’s the part stories like this usually skip.

They show a woman finally saying no, then every step afterward becomes confident and righteous with uplifting music playing somewhere.

Mine involved a Walgreens parking lot.

Driving downtown, my hands turned cold from nerves.

My mind began repeating the same arguments it had used for years.

Patricia’s guests were already there.

Mark would be furious.

Melissa would hear.

Everyone would say I embarrassed the family.

Maybe I should go home. Maybe I could make something quickly. Maybe I could explain things to the organizers.

Maybe.

I pulled into the Walgreens on Broad Street and shut off the car.

I sat staring at the red pharmacy sign.

I was 52 years old.

I ran a nonprofit, managed employees, answered to a board, controlled a budget. Women called me after their lives collapsed.