I smiled on the day my husband finalized our divorce and married the woman he had been seeing behind my back while I was eight months pregnant.

after.

And every anniversary, he and Emily went back to the tiny French restaurant in Chicago—not to grieve what had broken, but to honor the truth that saved them.

On their table, there was always steak tartare, warm bread, black cherry tart, and a handwritten card.

The message changed every year.

Except for one line.

I don’t need perfect.

I just need honest.continue reading …