Arthur invited me to dinner, and Linda arrived halfway through dessert—tall, neat, with dark hair pinned back and a face like stone. Arthur stiffened when she entered.
“Oh, you have company,” she said, looking me up and down. “This is the woman you told me about?”
Arthur nodded. “This is Caroline. Caroline, my daughter, Linda.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand, though nothing about her tone suggested sincerity.
Later, Arthur explained, “She’s just protective. It’s been only us for a long time.”
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I?
There were other odd moments. Once, at a restaurant, an older man clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Arthur! It’s been, what, 25 years? How have you been?”
Arthur stiffened, fear flickering in his eyes, before forcing a smile. “You can’t honestly expect me to sum up 25 years in one sentence?”
The man laughed. “Same old Arthur.”
Arthur quickly called for the check, though we hadn’t even discussed dessert. In the car, I asked, “Who was that man, and why were you in such a hurry to leave?”
Arthur paused. “That man is unbearable. That’s why we haven’t spoken in 25 years.”
I let it go. That was the humiliating part of my story—how much I let go.
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