Aster's opening night drew a large crowd.
Several major Kingswell art media outlets were there, and even the curator I met in Steinwald flew in specifically for the occasion.
Standing at the entrance, watching the lights come on in that warehouse that had once been covered in dust, I suddenly felt a sense of unreality.
Five years ago, to become a "proper Mrs. Grant," I shut the doors here myself.
Five years later, I opened them myself.
My parents were there too.
My father's first words weren't congratulations. Instead, he said, "The Grant Foundation recently suspended its partnership with both of our projects. Shouldn't you talk to Alexander?"
I looked at him and suddenly found it absurd.
"Why should I be the one to bring it up?"
"You were married, after all."
"We're divorced."
