It had followed us from a cozy one-bedroom apartment to a spacious condo, and finally to this sprawling mansion. We used to call it our good-luck charm, a witness to every stumble and triumph along the way.
Now it lay shattered across the floor.
Just like our seven-year marriage. Beyond repair. No going back.
I pulled my gaze from the wreckage and looked at Ida again.
"I've already had a lawyer draft the divorce papers. Make sure you sign—"
She cut me off before I could finish.
"My hand is bleeding, Roland. The vase cut me."
I froze, then glanced down.
Sure enough, a shard had sliced her palm open. Bright red blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
"Roland, help me with this." Her voice came out raw and hoarse.
She rarely showed vulnerability around me.
But I knew this game. It was her go-to move whenever she wanted to smooth things over. If I took the bait—rushed to get the first-aid kit, bandaged her up—then we'd be "fine again," just like that.
Not this time.
I looked away and kept my voice flat.
"It's just a small cut. Put some ointment on it."
I paused, then circled back to where we'd started.
"After you take care of that, sign the papers."
The light drained from Ida's eyes.