My phone alarm went off at seven o’clock in the morning, but I was already sitting at the yellow laminate kitchen table with a spoon in my hand.

The toaster clicked off in the corner, but no one moved to take out the two slices of wheat bread.

My laptop sat open on the counter between the ceramic butter dish and a steaming bowl of rolled oats, its screen showing an unread message from an email address I had not typed into a browser in eight years.

“Eat your porridge, Henry,” I said, sliding the heavy blue bowl two inches closer to his placemat.

Henry didn’t touch his spoon.

He stood beside the refrigerator with his feet shoulder-width apart, watching my face as I clicked open the inbox.

The sender’s name read Ethan Caldwell.

The subject line read Christmas Eve Dinner – Aspen Estate.

I adjusted my silver wristwatch, pulling the leather strap one notch tighter against my skin.

The message took less than a minute to read.

Ethan was hosting an evening gathering at seven PM on Christmas Eve at the Caldwell estate in Aspen to introduce his fiancée, Natalie Vance, to his family and business associates.

He wrote that he hoped I was managing well enough on my own in Colorado Springs, and that a quiet formal gathering might give me some long overdue closure after our brief, unraveling marriage.

He believed I was living alone in a small rental unit, bitter, isolated, and still holding a grudge against his family name.

“Is that message from him?” Henry asked.

“It’s an invitation to a holiday dinner,” I said.

“Are we going to Aspen?”

“He didn’t invite five people,” I said.

“He invited one.”