She expected me to shatter.
That was the whole point.
The restaurant they chose for the performance was called Halston’s, one of those places in downtown Chicago where the hostess wore black silk, the wine list looked like a leather-bound novel, and every table glowed under low amber light meant to make everyone look richer and happier than they really were. I had never eaten there before. Not because I couldn’t afford it, but because I had never liked places where everything felt staged.
That night, everything was staged.
The private room had a wall of windows overlooking the river. Snow flurries moved beyond the glass, drifting over the city in slow white ribbons. Inside, candles flickered over polished silver and crystal. My husband, Grant, had arranged the dinner, or at least that was what he told everyone. My parents were there. My younger sister, Lauren, was there. Two couples we knew socially. My father’s golf friend and his wife. Grant’s business partner, Nate. Even my mother had worn pearls, which she only did when she intended to sit through something she wanted remembered.
A giant bouquet of pale pink roses sat in the center of the room with a tiny card that read Happy Birthday, Emily in Grant’s crisp handwriting.
It should have felt thoughtful.
