“Betty, why haven’t you remarried?” my mother asked at last Thanksgiving. “You’re not getting any younger.”
My father nodded silently beside her, as always.
Across the table, my brother Peter smiled proudly. His wife, Sara, sat beside him, and their teenage son, Nick, barely looked up from his phone.
“I’m happy on my own, Mom,” I said. “It’s been five years since the divorce.”
She sighed. “Such a pity. Peter and Sara just hit 20 years together.”
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