I couldn’t see through Bryant.
All I could do was instinctively step back. “What do you mean?”
“Can we not get a divorce? Please?” Bryant clutched my wrist, his fingers
tracing my pulse, “From now on, it’s only you that I want. No one else
matters.”
I asked, “Including Teresa and Margaret?”
He said firmly, “Yes.”
“Bryant,” I sneered, full of disbelief. “Can you even convince yourself of that?”
If it was a sudden epiphany, it was far too late. I hadn’t expected him to

believe me, but it wasn’t enough to make up for the past between us.
His voice was low. “So, you still don’t want to remain my wife?”
I looked at him squarely, saying firmly, “Yes, I don’t.”
If we could go back to before we lost the baby and he made this decision, I
might have agreed in a heartbeat. But right then, I couldn’t find any reason to
say yes.
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Was it when he rushed past me to help someone else when I was knocked
down? Or was it when the slap he gave me as I miscarried wasn’t harsh
enough? Our marriage was beyond saving.
Bryant was silent for a long while, his grip on my hand tightening until, finally,
his eyes cleared, filled with bitter irony. “I could even pretend I never saw
these photos. Isn’t that enough?”
His words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over me in the dead of winter,
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