The Faded River
The champagne tasted like copper and stale ice. I stood by the buffet table, the crystal glass sweating in my grip, watching the band tear into a song my daughter, Clara, loved. She was twenty-four, radiant in white, her father’s eyes—my eyes—scanning the room with a calm I no longer possessed. The reception hall was a blur of warm light and clinking silverware, a celebration of life that felt...
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