I found the note on the patio table, pinned down by one of my garden rocks, the ink curling in Cassidy’s familiar loops as if this were some casual grocery list instead of a confession of deliberate, vicious destruction. Behind me, forty-one thousand gallons of water were gone, the pool gutted, the liner ripped like skin, our cleaner smashed in the deep end. One sentence in that note detonated eight years of swallowed anger and forced smiles, and the woman I’d been—accommodating, apologetic, endlessly available—died right there on the hot concrete wher… Continues…
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