I still can’t wash the smell of garlic and rosemary out of my favorite sweater.
I have tried everything. Soap. Vinegar. That expensive detergent David once bought because the commercial made him emotional for some reason.
Nothing works.
Every time I lift the sleeve to my face, I am back in that kitchen, standing barefoot on the hardwood floor while sauce dripped down my legs and my marriage cracked open in front of me.
It was supposed to be a quiet Tuesday dinner.
A small celebration.
Not the kind with balloons, champagne, or loud music. I had no strength for that anymore. Not after three agonizing years of hope, needles, waiting rooms, bruises on my stomach, and phone calls that always began with a pause long enough to destroy me before anyone said a word.