He called me a jealous shrew and locked me out. I spent the night shivering in below-freezing temperatures.
The brown sugar my aunt and uncle mailed? He gave that to Brooklyn too.
Even my favorite coat—the one sitting in the living room now—ended up hers. A few pitiful lies from her lips, and Justin handed it over.
Fighting became our daily routine. At first he tried coaxing me into submission. Eventually, his patience ran out.
The moment that truly broke me happened at the factory. I'd gone to bring him lunch.
When the massive chandelier crashed down, Justin didn't reach for me. Without hesitation, he threw himself over Brooklyn.
After I was discharged, I demanded a divorce. He warned me not to regret it.
He was right. A divorced woman was a pariah.
The Cultural Troupe fired me.
Then my son was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I swallowed my pride and begged Justin to use his money and connections to save our child.
He accused me of using my dying son to manipulate him.
When the hospital evicted us for non-payment, my son whispered that he wanted to see his daddy one last time.