sitting open on a chair beside her.
And she was emptying our wedding card box into it.
Not one envelope.
Not two.
Handfuls.
Cards from relatives.
Checks from friends.
Envelopes from people who had traveled hours to celebrate with us.
Linda was transferring all of them into her bag as calmly as if she were cleaning up after dinner.
I walked toward her.
Strangely, I was calm too.
Not because I wasn’t furious.
Because sometimes anger becomes so large that instead of exploding, everything inside you goes completely still.
“Linda,” I said. “What are you doing?”
She looked up without the slightest sign of guilt.
“Oh, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I’m just putting these somewhere safe.”
“They’re already safe. They’re in the card box.”
She laughed.
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Then she said something I still remember word for word.
“Honey, we paid for half this wedding. I’m just holding onto our half.”
