"I want you to use this time, while I'm taking care of Edith, to think long and hard about what you've done wrong. When you figure it out, come find me."
I stood there, numb, watching Patrick pull a blanket from the back seat and drape it over Edith with the tenderness of a man cradling something precious he thought he'd lost forever.
He hit the gas and disappeared down the road, swallowed by the blur of my stinging eyes.
For a long time, I just stood there. Then, with trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and sent Patrick a message.
I told you before we got married: I don't share. It's me or Edith. You can only pick one.
The message sank like a stone. Patrick didn't reply all night.
My marriage to Patrick started three years ago at an alumni mixer.
Back then, I'd seen enough of the ugly side of human nature working in obstetrics. I had zero interest in finding a partner. But the organizer happened to be a close friend of mine, and she badgered me relentlessly until I caved.
The moment I stepped into the private room, my eyes landed on Patrick. He radiated an aura that practically screamed stay away. My friend nudged me, eyebrows waggling, and pulled me aside to gossip.