The name on the bride’s line was Carolyn Pruitt. I stared at it until the letters blurred. Loretta quietly asked whether Dalton and I had ever divorced. We had not. She told me not to make assumptions about what the record legally meant until I spoke with an attorney, but she printed certified copies of both licenses for me. I folded them carefully and left without calling Dalton.
That afternoon, I drove to Louisville. I found Carolyn’s address through an old mutual friend and sat outside for twenty minutes before knocking. She opened the door wearing the same scarf I remembered from Kroger. When I showed her the license, she started crying. Carolyn believed Dalton had divorced me years earlier. Four years ago, while she was undergoing cancer treatment, he had reappeared, apologized for leaving her, and told her our marriage had ended.
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