My Husband’s Mistress Called Me the Maid Without Knowing Who I Was

made, and the fact that I had finished it myself with my own hands on a long weekend when we were young and broke and laughing at our own incompetence seemed like a reason to keep it rather than a reason to throw it away.

The table was mine. The work I had put into it was mine. What I built and kept and carried was mine.

Everything else could go.