At thirty-five, Linda Carter still had that kind of unbothered, stop-and-stare beauty—the kind that made dudes twist their necks like owls in public, even if they were pushing strollers next to their wives. Not that she noticed anymore.
You stop caring about that stuff when tuition's due, twins are arguing over cereal, and your son just bought you a luxury car that probably costs more than your ex's dignity.
Her dark hair, now streaked with faint caramel highlights, framed her face like a last-minute halo someone painted over a war veteran. And her eyes? Warm brown, with just enough exhaustion baked into them to let you know she's seen some shit—but she still shows up, lip gloss and all.
She had the figure of someone who moved constantly—part nurse, part firefighter, part unpaid therapist. All at once. And yet, she still moved like the woman she used to be: elegant, gentle, kind.
The version that hadn't yet learned that grace didn't pay the bills and love wasn't always loyal.
