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.

She stepped closer, her heels sinking slightly into the damp Savannah soil my father had spent forty years tending with his own hands.

“Mason and I thought we should speak with you before tomorrow becomes… uncomfortable,” she said sweetly.

I straightened, brushed dirt from my gloves, and looked at her.

“There is nothing to discuss,” I replied. “This is continue reading …