Donna's Seven Wounds, Don‘s One Betrayal

Dominic Marchetti doesn't cry.

He didn't cry when a rival family shattered his kneecap with an iron pipe.

He didn't cry when I miscarried his children—twice.

He didn't cry when I drove a knife into my own body seven times to save him.

But when his sponsored ballerina hurled herself into the marble fireplace mantel and split her forehead open, the tears came. He cradled that girl in his arms and rushed out the door—leaving me behind with a raging fever.

That was the moment I finally understood: ten years of us had already turned to ash.

So when my parents kept calling to berate me, I signed the divorce papers, erased every trace of him from my phone, and slipped out of New York without a sound.

Later—when he showed up at my door, gaunt from the cancer eating him alive, having knelt in the snow for three days until his body finally gave out—

I simply told him: "You've got the wrong person."

Then I closed the door.