By the end of that week, the locks had been changed, my health insurance was gone, and every photograph of me had started disappearing from the house.
I was twenty-two.
Clare was fifteen, crying from my old bedroom window, braces still on her teeth, both of us too young to stop what was happening.
Now she was the bride.
She had sent the invitation herself, handwritten, no return address, one line that made me drive three hours to Greenfield Country Club.
