I guess I expected a lot more time to pass before pictures with a new boyfriend appeared on her Instagram account. She'd claimed I was the love of her life. Didn't that deserve a solid year of feeling shit? Maybe even two?
The answer seemed to be no. Or no was the answer to another question I was now forced to ask myself: had she ever really loved me? Because she sure looked happy with her new meathead boyfriend way less than a year after she collapsed into my mother's arms at my funeral. She'd even scrubbed all photos of me from her social media. I mean, okay, I'd left her first, but she didn't know that. She thought I was dead. Didn't death count for anything anymore?
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