You do not sit in the front row. That is for family. You find an inconspicuous place towards the back. And you hope you aren’t noticed. You hope the family doesn’t see you. You hope the new husband doesn’t mind. And you sit there quietly. And you remember the last time you saw her. You met for coffee. And you think of how civil it was. How very adult. And how you congratulated yourself that all of the therapy might actually be working. Might actually have turned you into an adult. And you remember looking at this woman, the one you once promised to share a life with. And you wonder how different things might have been had you gotten that therapy earlier. And as you talk, politely, adult-like, over coffee you can’t help but notice the gray in her hair, and the wrinkles in her face. Which you would have never noticed had you been growing old together. Like you promised each other. And you can’t help but wonder how responsible you were for their early onset.