he had also learned something about me.
He had learned exactly how to ask me for help.
Near the bottom of the page, he had written:
“Before you decide what kind of jerk I was, go back to the courthouse where we got married. Ask for Margaret. Tell her you’re my wife.”
For a few minutes, I seriously considered throwing the letter away.
Instead, an hour later, I was standing inside the courthouse lobby.
Couples filled the plastic chairs.
A woman in a white jumpsuit adjusted her lipstick while her
