bottom of the page he’d written:
“Before you decide what kind of jerk I was, go back to the courthouse where we got married. Ask for Margaret. Tell her you’re my wife.”
I nearly threw the letter away.
“Tell her you’re my wife.”
Instead, an hour later, I was standing in the courthouse lobby.
Couples filled the plastic chairs.
A woman in a white jumpsuit fixed her lipstick while her fiancé held her bouquet. A toddler crawled beneath two chairs while his father tried to catch him.
I was standing
