And then, our anniversary approached. Our third wedding anniversary, that Sunday.
I had originally planned to celebrate it quietly, just the three of us, a family dinner, the kind of thing the old Grace would have done, the small hopeful wife trying to rekindle something. But now I had a different plan.
At the last minute, I changed everything.
I called both families. Elon’s parents, and his brother and sister-in-law. My parents, and my sister. I invited them all to our home for an anniversary dinner that Sunday. A celebration, I said. Something special. Elon was pleased when I told him, pleased and a little surprised, and he had no idea, none, what he was walking into.
I cooked all day Sunday. A roast chicken, golden and perfect. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. A pumpkin pie I made from scratch. A warm, cozy, ordinary family dinner, the kind of meal that says everything is fine here, everything is normal, look at this happy home. I set the table beautifully. I dressed nicely, and I dressed Sophie in her sweetest little outfit, and I welcomed both families into my home with a genuine smile, because I was, underneath everything, genuinely glad they were there, glad to have witnesses, glad that what was about to happen would happen in front of the people whose opinions Elon cared about most.
We ate. The conversation was warm and easy, both families comfortable together, everyone remarking on how lovely the meal was, how good it was to see Elon and me doing so well, what a beautiful baby Sophie was. Elon was in his element, charming, expansive, the successful husband and new father presiding over his happy home. He toasted me, at one point, said something smooth about how lucky he was, and everyone smiled, and I smiled, and only I knew what was coming.
When the plates were cleared, and the pie was served, and everyone had settled into that pleasant after-dinner fullness, I stood up with my water glass.
“I’d like to give a toast,” I said.
The table quieted, everyone turning to me with the fond attention people give to a wife about to say something sweet about her husband on their anniversary.
And I saw Elon stiffen. Just slightly. Some animal instinct in him, some flicker of unease, because in two years of marriage I had never once stood to give a toast, had never once been the center of a room, had always been the quiet one at the edge. He didn’t know why, but some part of him sensed that the ground had shifted.
