After all these years, it seemed Abigail had forgotten that I, too, had once clawed my way out of blood and violence like a tiger.
I was never a soft target.
After hanging up, I went home and pulled two notebooks from a drawer.
One had my name on it.
The other had Abigail’s.
When we got married, we made an agreement that whenever one of us was wronged, we’d record it on a page.
When the notebook was filled, it meant the chances were used up, and so was the love.
In the past, even when we argued or I felt hurt, I never wrote anything down because problems could be solved by talking, and there was no third person involved.
That was, until Logan started working at the hospital.
The first time I wrote in it, I only meant to warn Abigail, to tell her to rein it in.
But page after page, without realizing it, I reached the very last one, and this final page recorded every grievance I had left.
Just then, Logan sent me a message.
[Harrison, what do you think of this tattoo? Looks good?]
The picture showed half a maple leaf, with the letter “A” hidden inside.
The meaning was obvious.
It stood for Abigail.