“Be loyal to him, give him understanding and love. Be the kind of partner to him that you want him to be to you.” She pauses and looks at the other women. “It goes by fast. There’ll be hard times, fights, illness, lost jobs, lost houses, deaths. Such hard times. But beautiful times too. Ask yourself, not, do I want to spend my life with this man when things are great, but, is this the man I want to be with when everything is going to hell and we’re both falling apart? When love is a memory, and the sex is nonexistent, because that will happen, for a spell—”

“That’s a fact,” Wanda deadpans, and they all laugh.

Then Petunia continues. “When love is a memory, will you remember that family and loyalty and support and kindness and compassion and friendship are something you hold dear? Can you sit together, stay, hold hands through hell and let the love blossom again? Because that will happen too. Ebbs and flows. Remember, if you don’t value yourself, and know who and what you love and stand for, then you’ll fall for anything and lose everything. Think about it. Love isn’t only about the good times and happy feelings. It’s about the hard, dull, day-to-day times too. It’s fifty years of good mornings, not just one night of candlelight.”

I let Petunia’s words sink in. Fifty years is a long time and it won’t all be filled with candlelight and flowers and first kisses. That’s fine. It’s not what I’ve dreamed of. What I fantasize about is waking up and the space in bed next to me is warm, not cold. Or being at the grocery store and picking out a box of cereal that I know my husband likes. Or coming home after a long day and instead of hearing only silence, hearing him in the kitchen or watching TV, and knowing that I’m not alone. Knowing someone out there cares…about me…and I care about them.

Petunia pats my shoulder and steps back from me. “You’re ready.”

Wanda holds up a hand mirror. “What do you think?”

My eyelashes look longer, my lips fuller, my hair is shiny and sleek. The smoky eyeshadow makes me look mysterious and womanly.

“I don’t recognize myself.”

“You look like your mother,” Wanda says.

My heart thuds and I give her a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I never told you, I’m sorry we didn’t see how much her death affected your father. We didn’t see how bad it was until you were grown. We’re very sorry,” Wanda says.

“We all are,” Petunia says.

I nod and squeeze Wanda’s hand. “It’s okay.”

My dad died three years ago, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have. Because it was as if he’d been gone years before.