I didn’t answer.
My eyes remained fixed on Marianne.
She sat in the front section reserved for parents and guardians, dressed in a simple cream-colored suit.
She looked older than the woman I remembered, but not in the way I had expected.
Her face had matured.
There were faint lines near her eyes.
Her dark hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head.
But she carried herself with a quiet confidence that had never been there when we were married.
Back then, Marianne had always tried to make herself smaller around me.
She had softened her opinions.
Apologized when she had done nothing wrong.
Pretended not to notice when my mother criticized her family.
Now she looked like a woman who had spent thirteen years learning that she didn’t need my approval.
She saw me approaching.
Her expression didn’t change.
That hurt more than anger would have.
“Marianne,” I said when I reached her.
