Two years of marriage.
Eleven dinners at Corinne’s.
Four holidays.
And not one single time — not once — had Garrett said the sentence “my wife runs the Thomasina Fund” in front of his family.
He’d said “Danielle does some nonprofit work.”
He’d said “she volunteers.”
He’d said “she’s between things.”
He had a wife who had built an eleven-million-dollar endowment out of a building his mother’s friends drank in, and he had spent two years describing her as a woman with a hobby, because a man who marries up has to explain himself and a man who marries down gets to be generous.
That’s the whole thing.
That’s all it ever was.
The pressure came Monday.
From Blythe.
“Danielle.
Okay.
Garrett’s a disaster, we all know he’s a disaster, and Mom’s — Mom’s Mom.
But this is getting out of hand.
