I sat down between a man who sold home insurance and a woman who raised alpacas in Vermont. Both were polite. Neither had ever met Owen.
They talked across me most of the night. During the toast, the microphone passed to Lauren’s father, her brother, then her college roommate. There was a joke about tequila shots and a memory from summer camp.
At one point, someone asked when the groom’s mom would speak. Lauren laughed and said maybe later, then moved on. When dinner came, it was plated and quiet.
I had the chicken. It was dry. A butter roll sat untouched on the side.
I noticed no one at my table finished their meal either. The desserts were fancier than they looked. One bite of the lemon tart and I felt more bitter than sweet.
Owen never made it to my table. Not once. He danced with Lauren, then with her mom, then with someone’s aunt.
I waited, fixed the hem of my dress three times, smiled at a photographer who passed me twice without raising his camera. By the end of the night, I sat quietly in that rented chair, surrounded by empty plates and people already halfway to their cars. I folded my napkin slowly, slipped it under the rim of my glass.
No one said goodbye. No one noticed when I left. A week passed after the wedding before Owen called.
He said he wanted to have me over for dinner, just the two of us. Said Lauren would be out with friends. His voice was cheerful but measured.
I could tell he was trying to sound casual. I told him I’d be there, no questions asked. That evening, I wore the same cardigan I had on when I first brought Owen home from the hospital.
It still fit soft around the wrists. I baked a tray of oatmeal cookies and wrapped them in foil. The drive down was quiet.
The roads were dry, the sky overcast in that flat gray way that makes you feel like winter isn’t finished, even when the calendar says otherwise. Owen’s new house sat in a tidy neighborhood on the edge of town. Brick exterior, trimmed hedges, the kind of place with matching porch lights and a doorbell camera.
He opened the door with a smile, quick and polite. Gave me a short hug that barely touched the shoulders. Said the kitchen was through the hall.
Dinner wasn’t ready. Instead, there was a table set for two, a bottle of wine already uncorked, and a small stack of papers placed carefully beside the salad plates. The papers were clipped neatly with tabs and a blue pen laid diagonally across the top page.
Owen poured me a glass, asked about the drive, complimented the cookies. His tone felt rehearsed, as if he were speaking through a script he had memorized but not written. Then he gestured to the papers.
He said it was just something for peace of mind. In case anything ever happened to me. Said it would make things easier.
Just a standard durable power of attorney, a common form. Everyone’s doing it. He said these things like they were weather reports.
Distant, practical, emotionless. I nodded, reached for the packet. The words on the first page were thick with legal terms, but the language underneath was clear.
Financial authority, real estate management, full access, immediate effect, no expiration. It didn’t say son. It didn’t say family.
It said agent. It said authorization. It said control.
He smiled and said no rush, but the pen was already uncapped. I noticed then that the plates on the table were empty. No food, no smells from the kitchen.
Just wine. Just paper. Just a silent ask beneath a friendly tone.
I placed the packet back down and told him I’d take it home. Said I’d look it over carefully. He nodded once and reached for his wine eyes darting to the pen, then back to my face.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. His silence said enough.
We talked about nothing after that. Weather. The neighbor’s new fence.
Some show on cable I didn’t know. When I stood to leave, he walked me to the door, hugged me again, even lighter than before. Back in the car, I didn’t turn the engine right away.
I sat there, hands in my lap, the foil-wrapped cookies still untouched on the passenger seat. The porch light behind me turned off after a minute. Motion sensor.
Efficient. Automatic. Just like the dinner.
I got home that night and didn’t bother to change out of my shoes. I sat on the edge of the couch, my coat still zipped halfway. Hands resting on my lap like they didn’t belong to me.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Even the clock in the kitchen seemed to have stopped ticking.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was breathing. After a while, I stood up and walked down to the basement. My knees ached on the way down, and the air was cold, the kind that settles in old wooden beams.
At the far end behind the laundry machine, there was a cabinet tucked low beneath a shelf of paint cans. I had to kneel to reach it. Inside was a small metal box.
I hadn’t opened it since the year Mark died. He always said if anything happened to him, I’d find what I needed in there. I’d never had reason to look before.
But that night, something in me knew it was time. The lid creaked open. Everything inside was organized just like Mark always kept things.
He was methodical that way. Neatly stacked folders clipped and labeled. At the very bottom was a letter with my name on it written in his handwriting.