The day my husband tried to erase me, the sky was the same dull gray as the first morning that white envelope appeared on our table. He slid it across the wood like a dare, like a test he was certain I would fail, never imagining that the woman he was hiring under a false name was the same one who washed his mother’s sheets at midnight. While he measured my worth in hours and invoices, I was building a quiet ledger of my own—dates, dosages, bruises he never saw because he never looked. By the time he realized the caregiver he thought he controlled was the wife he’d long since stopped seeing, the story he’d written for me had already begun to come apar… Continues…
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