I don't know if this really counts as a confession... it's more of a memory, I think. Or maybe a feeling that came back to me, unexpectedly. It happened just last week. I was at the grocery, waiting for my number at the deli counter. I had number 17. And I watched... as they called 12, then 14, then 16. Then 18. And I was still just standing there, number 17, politely trying to catch someone's eye. A woman, maybe early thirties, she had 18. And she smiled at me, a little apologetically, I suppose, as she walked up. And the deli person, a young man, he just served her. Never even glanced at me. It’s silly, I know. A small thing. But it brought it all back, the way it used to feel. That sense of being... invisible. I don't know if that's quite the right word. More like, not quite present enough to be counted. After my divorce, when I was in my fifties, everything shifted. Suddenly, my friends, who had been our friends for thirty years, they just... went with him. Or they vanished. I rebuilt, of course. Started a new life. A different life. But sometimes, when I'm tired, that feeling creeps back in. That I’m just... an afterthought. I think maybe it's a kind of attachment injury, in a way. The original wound, you know, when you’re younger and you feel overlooked. And then it repeats, in different forms. Like at the deli. I wasn't angry, not really. Just... a little deflated. I just wanted my ham. I stood there for another few minutes, and finally, another person, a kind lady, she called out, "Did anyone have 17?" And I got my ham. But the moment... it stayed with me. It's strange, how a small slight can open up such old channels. I remember after the split, walking into a restaurant we used to frequent, and the hostess, who knew us well, she didn't even recognize me alone. Just looked right through me. And I thought, oh. This is what it's like now. To be just... a woman. Not *his* wife. Not part of a pair. Just... me. And sometimes that feels like a lot. And sometimes it feels like not quite enough. I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone else. It just… it felt important, somehow, to remember it. And to type it out.