Realization.
The ugly kind.
The kind that arrives too late.
Mr. Whitaker slowly walked toward our table.
The microphone remained in his hand.
“You know what’s interesting, Roy?”
The room became silent again.
Roy swallowed.
“What?”
Mr. Whitaker’s voice stayed calm.
“Over twenty years, I attended dozens of company events with Marlene.”
He tilted his head.
“I don’t remember seeing you at any of them.”
A few uncomfortable laughs appeared.
Roy said nothing.
Mr. Whitaker continued.
