The recording had not changed.

Only I had, one flattering revision at a time, until I had edited my own son out of my history.

Chapter 9 — The Night I Rewrote

I remembered that night now with terrible clarity.

We had both been worn to nothing by months of missed dinners, canceled trips, endless arguments about my schedule.

Rosalie had told me, again, that she felt completely invisible in our marriage.

And instead of hearing her pain, I had let my wounded pride answer for me, and I had said that if she was so unhappy, we should simply stop trying.