But not.
I felt different.
More accurate.
Harder to deceive.
Much less willing to call “bad luck” something that a man designed intentionally.
I kept Walter’s key, the letter, and the photograph of the cake I found in his room after the funeral.
In that picture I’m in profile, wearing a borrowed apron and a tired smile, and someone, probably him, wrote a single sentence behind me with a blue pen.
“She was the only decent person at that table.”
It’s not a beautiful phrase.
She’s not cute.
It’s not the kind of compliment a woman dreams of receiving.
But it’s true.
And after everything they did to me, I discovered that the truth, when it finally arrives without makeup, can sound almost the same as love.
