Viola McCoy He didn’t show up. He never has. But this time, I really thought he would. A knot forms at the pit of my stomach. Why did I let myself hope this time? Maybe because I had woken up to Julian, my husband, holding a bouquet of flowers and waiting to hand them to me as soon as I’d woken up.Even though it’s my birthday, I hadn’t expected him to do something special for me. He’s not done something special for me in a long long time. But still, that simple gesture—coupled with the special dinner he’d said he planned for both of us this evening—had made me hope he really meant every word he said.But he didn’t. And now, I’m sitting alone at Chilvary Restaurant, staring at the untouched candle on my cake. I exhale slowly, forcing down the sting of humiliation. I can leave. I should leave. But instead, I continue to sit there, waiting, just like I always do. The restaurant doors swing open, and for a brief, stupid second, I think it’s him. It isn’t. The candle on my c
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