I Cheated On My Husband

We Are Still Together

It feels like this.

Your grandma leaves you a family heirloom quilt that she hand stitched herself. Before she died, you promised her that you would keep it safe. One day you come home and the quilt is in shreds. The dogs have ruined it. You drop to the floor and pick up every single piece of tattered fabric. The fibers are wet with cold urine, tinged with stain. You spend months washing the fabric, ironing it, then piecing it back together.

You vow again, to never let the quilt get damaged. The stitches will be strong this time. Sewn with heavy duty thread. Everything is double stitched. You proudly display the new and improved quilt on the mantle, so that everyone can see how much you treasure it now. People around you compliment on how well you fixed it and how beautiful it looks. Everyone smiles and beams up at the quilt, some reach out and touch it.

The faint, musty smell of dog piss slowly lingers into the nostrils of all who are in attendance. Nobody mentions this.

“Your grandma would be proud.” someone says.