We hadn’t lived together yet.
My belongings were supposed to move into his townhouse at month’s end.
I’d already packed four boxes.
One contained kitchen items, another books, and a third winter clothes.
The fourth held purchases for our married life: matching towels, new sheets, and two mugs labeled Mr. and Mrs.
Standing beside them Sunday morning, I briefly wanted to smash the mugs.
Instead, I brewed coffee.
Then I sat at the kitchen table crying until it turned cold.
Mom called around nine.
“Have you eaten anything?”
“Not really.”
“I’m bringing breakfast.”
“Mom, you don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Twenty minutes later, she arrived with bagels, orange juice, and a folder of wedding receipts.
We spent an hour examining the expenses.
Some vendors had been paid completely, while others offered partial refunds.
The reception coordinator had arranged for most of the prepared food to be distributed instead of discarded.
