Mom was probably as disillusioned by motherhood as Emily Bovary had been.
The bookmark fell out, fluttering to the floor like a wounded butterfly. She scooped it up and realized it wasn't a random piece of paper Mom had used to mark her stopping place in the novel.
It was a folded square of parchment the color of a ripe peach.
She put down the book and opened it, staring down at the unfamiliar scrawl of a man's handwriting.
She began to read.
My darling Fiona,
Tonight, I give myself to you in the sacred grove. Heart. Soul. Mind. Body. I want to speak vows with you. And I will marry you as soon as I can untangle myself from Carol. But this ritual we do tonight is the one that truly matters. A binding that seals our destinies. We are one, my love.
Forever yours,
Doug
Shock rooted her to the floor as she considered the implications. Then her legs turned into wet noodles and threatened to give way. She sat down heavily on the bed and read the letter again.
