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Emily stands in front of the mirror and barely recognizes herself. The white dress transforms her into

Margaret had nearly completed her morning rituals—feeding the terrier, Buster, who patrolled the garden

“Son, when will Dad return from his trip?” little Amelia cried one evening, her eyes wide

April 5th, 2024. Bristol drizzle pocking against the windowpanes as I write this. Margaret snapped her

Emily needed to rest up for the weekend. She opened the wardrobe, pulling out one of her new dresses. “

Emily Thomas took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the plate of biscuits. “

Clara staggered into Bridget’s garden, the floral dress she’d worn for this reunion clinging

“Emily, stop sulking and get up, will you? This has gone on long enough! Look at you—still wrapped

“Ye’re not even his wife!” Mabel Bridges hissed, her voice sharp enough to make Eliza’s

Emily, what are you doing? – Margaret’s voice trembled with outrage. – How can you leave your husband