The Halloween Night I Buried My Mother, He CheatedChapter 3

And to keep Sarah comfortable through school, he pretended to be broke for eight years.

Every dollar of his military pay funneled straight to her. Tuition. Rent. Living expenses. Everything.

While I raised his son, nursed his parents.

While I cooked their meals, washed their clothes.

While I swallowed the quiet contempt, the looks from the other officers' wives, the pity, the whispers.

Because Ryan was a decorated battalion commander with a bright future.

And I was just his uneducated wife. No degree. No career. Nothing to show for myself.

My palm throbbed where my nails had dug in.

I set the grocery bag down on the front step.

Then I got in the car and drove to the base JAG office.

The legal officer looked up when I walked in.

"I need to know the process," I said, "for divorcing a commanding officer. What paperwork do I need?"

...

I drove back from the JAG office. The house was quiet.

Ryan was sitting in the living room, reading something on his tablet.

The warm light from the floor lamp fell across his face. He looked almost the same as the day we married. Tall. Square-shouldered. Handsome.

It reminded me of the photos Sarah posted on Instagram two months ago.

Paris.

She was in front of the Eiffel Tower, hair in soft curls, wearing Italian leather heels that cost more than my monthly groceries.

Glowing. Confident. She didn't look anywhere near thirty-five.

I'd shown Ryan the photos that night, half-joking, half-wistful.

"That must be nice, right? Get an education, and you get to see the world. If I'd gone to college, maybe..."

Ryan smiled and cut me off.

"Come on, Lena. People like us don't get to live like that. We weren't born for it."

"Once Tyler's grown and out of the house, we'll save up. I'll take you somewhere nice. I promise."

That night, I actually let myself picture it.

Ryan and me in Paris. Walking along the river. Sharing a bottle of wine at some little sidewalk cafe.

So I worked harder. Picked up extra cleaning shifts.

Skipped meals to save a few dollars. Put every spare cent toward Tyler's future.

It never crossed my mind that the man behind the camera was my husband.

He'd taken her everywhere. Bought her the heels, the perfume. Told her not to worry about money, just take care of herself.

Gentle. Attentive. Like a devoted husband.

While I stood in our greasy kitchen, scrubbing pots, wondering what Paris looked like.

Ryan looked up when I came in empty-handed, and his eyes went cold.

I could feel the lecture coming.

Before today, I would have apologized. I would have tied on my apron and scrambled to put something together. Made it nice. Made it right.

Not anymore.

I looked away from him and walked straight toward the bedroom.

Behind me, I heard him stand up.

Then the coffee mug hit me.

It hit my forehead. The pain was sharp. Blood was sliding past my eyebrow.

Ryan had his hand still raised. He opened his mouth to yell.

Then he saw my eyes. His hand froze mid-air.

"Lena, what is going on with you?"

His voice dropped. Almost reasonable now. Almost concerned.

"We've been married eight years. If something's bothering you, just say it. You're upsetting everyone."

He didn't even know what I was angry about.

I almost laughed.

"I've told you what I want. A divorce."

Ryan's face flushed red.

"Here we go again. Stop using divorce as a threat, Lena. We both know you've got nothing. You can't possibly afford to leave me."

He was right. I had nothing.

My wedding gift from my mother. Every dollar I earned from cleaning shifts, odd jobs...

All of it had gone to Ryan and Tyler.

And from them, to Sarah.

I laughed. Cold.

"All these years, you haven't given me a hundred dollars. And Sarah? You know how much your mistress got. How dare you say I couldn't afford to leave you?"