The night my husband threw me out, the rain was falling so hard the street shimmered like black glass. He didn’t even allow me to take an umbrella.
“Three years,” Adrian said, standing in the doorway of the house I had paid half the mortgage for. “Three completely wasted years, Mara. No child. No legacy. Nothing.”
Behind him, his mother smiled calmly over the edge of her teacup.
His new woman, Celeste, lounged against the staircase wearing my silk robe.
My silk robe.
I stared at the suitcase Adrian had packed for me. Two sweaters. One pair of shoes. My grandmother’s photograph with a crack running across her face.
“That’s all?” I asked quietly.
Adrian’s mouth curled. “You should be thankful I’m not demanding compensation.”
“For what?”
“For wasting my youth.”
His mother laughed softly. “Don’t make a scene, dear. Women like you age terribly when they cry.”
I didn’t cry.
That seemed to bother them more than anything else.
Adrian stepped closer and lowered his voice. “The allowance ends tonight. The accounts are frozen. My attorney will contact you. Sign quietly, and maybe I’ll leave you enough money to rent a room somewhere.”
“You froze my accounts?”
“Our accounts,” he corrected.
