The Birthday Toast

I was Silas Thorne's wife for two lifetimes.

The first time, I stepped in front of a knife meant for him and died on a wet Connecticut road in November.

The second time, I took the fall for him, did seven years in a federal women's prison in Danbury, and on the morning I was released he had me committed to a private Berkshires retreat called Hartwell Manor.

The third time, I woke up at his birthday dinner.

Everyone there was waiting to watch me, Mrs. Thorne, kneel a little lower for the privilege of being kept.

Silas lifted a tumbler of bourbon and said, in that bored-vowel voice the family bred for, "Wren. Don't make a scene at my birthday."

I slid a manila envelope across the table into his dinner plate.

"Happy birthday, Silas."

"And get out of my life."

At six the next morning, the entire Thorne family was on the landing outside my Beacon Hill walk-up.

The woman who had spent two lifetimes calling me a stain on her name was on her knees on slate, crying so hard her mascara had reached her collar.

Silas had his forehead pressed against my front door.

"Wren. Don't leave me."

They all remembered.