my grandmother's protection, snapped something inside me. The f

my voice quiet but firm. I put th

sed. Then Ethan laughed. It wasn't a nic

hand as if swatting away a fly. "You have nowhere to go. Y

mires me. But you're my wife. You're the respectable, stable architect's wife that looks good on my arm at hospital fundraise

sted. "You think I wou

added, looking me up and down with a contemptuous gaze, "I know you. You're loy

of my anger. He thought he had me comple

oom and pulled out a photo album from the back of the closet. It was filled with pictures from the six years I supported

mbered crying with joy. That was the week he forgot my birthday. This one, from our third anniversary.

to the fire, watching the happy images of us curl, blacken, and turn to ash. Th

s perfume and cheap movie theater popcorn,

cial papers," I said, my face a pl

second thought. He was too sel

sick. A young, kind-faced nurse with a name tag that read 'Sarah' wa

, Mrs. Hayes?" she asked

my voice breaking. "I need to make a phon

k at me. She nodded. "Give me the

It was a small, fragile

our bathroom, a romance novel on my nightstand. One evening, Ethan came home from the clinic with a faint, reddish mark on his neck, just above hi