When she was in a good mood, she was passionate. But when the mood shifted, it was a nightmare. If she woke up with insomnia, she ensured I suffered too—biting my arm, shaking me, doing whatever it took to keep me from sleeping. Once, when I couldn't find the specific gourmet cake she craved, she threw a tantrum that lasted hours and locked me out of the bedroom.
Every time, she would eventually offer a quiet "sorry," and I would forgive her.
I loved her. Because of that love, I yielded. I swallowed my pride. I molded her into the image of a good wife, smoothing over her rough edges with my own patience.
I never expected that five years of devotion would lose to a single sentence of provocation from her shallow best friend.
I took a deep breath.
"We don't have a conflict," I said, my voice steady and devoid of the apology they demanded. "She simply thinks I'm no longer worthy of her."
The accusations died in their throats. The room fell silent as everyone turned to Caroline, waiting for her denial.
"That's right."
She didn't flinch. Her chin lifted in defiance. "My best friend is right. Women should marry up. We should always look for something better."