I forgot how to breathe.
Kayla stood on my porch.
For twenty years, I had occasionally imagined that moment.
In some versions, she looked ashamed.
In others, older and broken.
Sometimes I imagined her arriving with an apology so sincere that even I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Reality looked nothing like those fantasies.
Kayla looked polished.
Expensive.
Her blonde hair was professionally styled.
A designer coat rested over one arm.
A diamond watch glittered on her wrist.
Even her shoes looked as though they cost more than appliances I had saved months to replace.
She smiled.
“Margaret.”
I gripped the edge of the door.
“Kayla.”
There was no apology in her eyes.
No hesitation.
No recognition of what twenty years meant.
She stepped past me as casually as though she had visited last month.
Then she removed her coat and handed it to me.
I stared at
