It was exactly 9:00 p.m, on the third Wednesday of August, in the year of 20o6. I was a mess. Mad. Sad. Furious. Mad. And then there was Parker. Happy. Joyful. Gleeful. Happy. He hummed a familiar tune, Michael Jackson, I think, as he hopped up the steps leading the small apartment we lived in. I waited at the door, looking through the peep hole gritting my teeth. He opened the door, with a charming smile on his face. He grabbed me by my waist and kissed me. I pushed him back.

“Where were you?”
“Talking to your sister.”
“Mmmm hmmm… and what did you tell her?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because she called me.”
“What did she say?”
“That you said ‘Oh. Maddie… and kids? No way. Yeah, right.’ How could you tell my sister that? You know she’ll tell my mom. And plus, I never said I didn’t want kids!”
“Maddie, that’s all I said. And it’s not like you want kids.”
“You know what! I’m going to go get a drink.”
I walked out the front door and slammed it shut. And later, I walked into a bar.

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