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My husband walked into my mother’s gallery with his mistress on his arm, and she was wearing my mother’s curtains as a gown. Three hundred guests stared while Adrian smiled and said, “Claire, try not to embarrass yourself.” I did not scream. I did not touch him. I only looked at the black pomegranate embroidery stitched across her waist—and watched my husband’s face change when I reached for one loose thread. Across the ballroom, my mother’s former attorney set down his champagne and said, very quietly, “Do not pull that here.”