The divorce had begun with a photograph.

Six weeks before that evening, Meredith left a leather portfolio on the breakfast table.

I picked it up to move it away from my coffee and a photograph slipped out.

In it she stood beside a man outside the Greensboro factory.

Both were smiling, the man holding a small bouquet wrapped in newspaper.

On the back, in a handwriting I did not recognize, someone had written: You deserve the future you wanted.

I had no right to make assumptions.