The night Scott told me I wasn’t his wife, something in me split cleanly down the center, like a bone finally giving under pressure it had carried too long. By the next evening, when he walked in grinning, guitar case swinging, expecting celebration and applause, he found instead an apartment half packed into boxes, a dinner table laid out like evidence, and a woman who had quietly resigned from the unpaid life she’d been living in his name for nin… Continues…
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