The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

I was young enough to mistake poetry for loyalty.

Now those same roses stood as silent witnesses to the wreckage of a fifteen-year marriage. Mason had left me for his assistant—the very woman now standing in my father’s garden in designer heels, looking at me as though I were a tenant who had overstayed her welcome.

“Good morning, Brooke,” I said calmly.continue reading …