I was the one being pushed to the edge.
By him. By Adela.
On the surface, this past year since Kevin "recommitted" to our family had seemed almost normal.
But I was falling apart.
Every night, the same nightmare—that hotel bed, those two pale bodies tangled together.
I started crying for no reason. Shaking uncontrollably. Screaming. Throwing things. Dragging a knife across my own wrists.
If Kevin came home even slightly late, I'd pick a fight over nothing.
I questioned everything. Was he seeing someone else again?
At first, he'd explain himself patiently. Eventually, he just moved to the guest room.
The distance between us froze solid.
Then one day, I found myself standing on our balcony—eighteen floors up—holding my daughter, ready to jump.
That's when it hit me.
I had nearly died.
I'd become exactly what Kevin called those "dramatic" and "hysterical" new mothers. I was depressed. Clinically.
Standing on that rooftop, the cold wind slapped me awake.
I started fighting back. Doctor after doctor. Pill after pill.
But today, the man who did this to me had shoved me right back to the edge.
This rotten, suffocating excuse for a marriage—it ends here.
I lay awake until dawn. Kevin never came home.