Behind Closed Lies

elf. I used to have a walk-in closet bigger than the room in which I now stand. Racks of dresses organized by colo

pants and a cozy sweater. Like a reverse commuter, I changed

d asked me to leave our Westchester house,

label third floor, I depend on commissions, s

rmoire with an almost military precision

last time I wore it, a lifetime ago. I don’t need a scale to inform me I’v

Greek yogurt with fresh blueberries, and kiss her, t

eep well?” “

envelope between spoonfuls of her breakfast. For Aunt Charlotte, momentum is the key to emotional health. She’s always urging me to join her for a stroll through

not just because it seems as if I am finally getting better. I’ve disrupted her lifestyle; normally she spends mornings in an extra bedroom that doubles as

of as her “lights-out days,” I’d call Aunt Charlotte, my m

ined hands, folding me into an embrace that smelled of linseed oil and lavender. Without children of her own, she had th

irls. Her steel-gray hair is swept up in a messy bun, and the eclectic place setting before her—a cobalt-blue

his neighborhood before real-estate prices skyrocketed, but it has the feel of a funky old farmhouse. The wood f

tonight?” I ask

es art critic along with a few studio owners gathered in her living room. “Let me get the wine on my w

g it back to bed, where she’s drowsy and warm under the fluffy down comforter we

what happens during the rest of the day, at least we had this,

ift from Richard for our fifth anniversary,

my own clothes—even though they’ve been cleaned—a whiff of the citrus scent of the L’Occitane

be good for you to

thinking about Richard. She isn’t privy to the real story of our marriage, though. She thinks he chased youth, casting me aside,

d from her expression if she

ut text me if you need any

diness. I need a better way to fall asleep; the pills my doctor prescribed leave me sluggish i