I had been on my feet since 4:00 AM. I had personally arranged the centerpieces, white orchids imported from South America because Kyrie said roses were “too pedestrian.” I had argued with the caterers about the temperature of the filet mignon. I had even ironed Kyrie’s Italian silk suit myself, pressing my love into every seam, hoping that tonight, finally, he would look at me and see his wife, not just the woman who managed his life.