Perhaps it’s my age, but I think a lot about beginnings and rarely of endings. The divorce invitation came as a surprise
With every year that passes, more wedding invitations arrive. Now, summers are filled in advance, dedicated to engagements, hens, weddings and, soon, baby showers.
But this month I received a different invitation: “Please save the date to mark my divorce.” It was from a school friend. Hers was my first white-people wedding. It was in a church in Yorkshire, I was 18, she wore a white dress and held a bouquet. I knew all the lines, absorbed from television. “Can’t wait for the organ bit,” I’d think. “Such a tune. Hope this vicar does the ‘forever hold your peace’ bit too.”
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