“What’s that?”
“When I was twenty-five, I thought I’d have everything figured out by now.”
I laughed softly. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Poorly.”
I smiled.
She traced a finger around the rim of her glass. “I thought I’d be married forever.”
The smile slipped from my face.
“My husband left when Hazel was two.”
I stayed silent.
Millie stared off into nowhere. “At first he told me he needed space.”
I winced. That never led anywhere good.
“A few months later, it turned out he needed a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor.”
I blinked. “That’s unfortunate.”
“That’s one word for it.”
The laugh she let out held very little humor. I knew that sound. I’d heard versions of it for two centuries. It was the sound people made when something hurt so much that they were tired of crying about it.
“He remarried.”
I nodded.
“He has two little boys now.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten. Grief.
“Poor Hazel,” Millie said softly. “She only sees him on holidays. Sometimes she acts like it doesn’t bother her. And sometimes she asks me whether he loves his new kids more.”
My heart broke a little. How pitiful. “What do you tell her?”
Millie looked down at her glass. “The truth.”
I waited.
“I tell her that her father loves her.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Then I tell her that adults make stupid decisions.”
That startled a laugh out of me.
Millie smiled. “It’s surprisingly effective.”
“I imagine it is.”
She looked toward the living room again. The girls were giggling hysterically. Billie appeared to be wearing a paper crown. Hazel was attempting to attach googly eyes to a stuffed rabbit.
“They deserve better than what they got.”
I followed her gaze.
