The Rain on the Mountaintop Washed Away Our Marriage

With that, Robert flung a small box at me.

The corner caught me right at the edge of my eye. The pain was sharp enough that tears spilled before I could stop them.

He looked startled, and there was something flustered in the way he leaned in to check the cut.

The instant he got close, a thick, cloying perfume washed over me.

That scent. It was the one Philippa always wore.

I shoved him away in disgust, my gaze dropping to the box on the floor.

The necklace had slid out of it.

Across the white diamonds lay a dried, crusted film.

I didn't have to think hard to picture what the two of them had been doing while wearing it.

My stomach turned.

I kicked the necklace back toward him.

"Robert, drop the fake concern."

"I don't want a secondhand necklace, and I don't want a secondhand man either."

"All right, don't say things you don't mean. Let me take you to the hospital."

Robert stared at the little beads of blood seeping from the corner of my eye, his face full of tenderness.

Ignoring how weak I was, he hauled me up off the bed by force.

Playing the part of the devoted husband, he insisted on driving me to the hospital.

I was too dazed to even grab a coat.

The car was freezing.

I reached for the wool blanket on the back seat.

One tug, and the blanket tore open in a wide hole, a worn pair of stockings tumbling out in front of me.

Robert noticed the look on my face and explained it away without a second thought.

"That's probably one of Philippa's pranks. She's always been like that, just like a kid."

"Come on, wipe that look off your face. It's only a blanket."

"I'm out there working myself to death to put food on your table, and you're giving me attitude over some ratty blanket? You don't have half the sense Philippa does."

That wool blanket was the last thing my grandmother left behind.

She'd known her time was running short.

She had embroidered it with her own hands as a wedding gift for Robert and me.

I tucked it gently into my bag, not wanting to waste another word.

Right then, the phone rang.

It was his friend Brock.

"Robert, my man, we said we'd celebrate your ten years of being together with Philippa. Why aren't you here yet?"

He'd forgotten my birthday.

But he remembered the date he first held Philippa's hand.

Robert really was something.

On the other end, Philippa let out a scornful little laugh.

"What else would it be? It's that shrew of his at home."

"Marrying a woman like that? Talk about rotten luck."

Robert shot me an awkward glance, telling Philippa to watch her mouth.

At the same time he yanked the wheel hard, rerouting us toward the location they'd sent.

I was instantly on guard and tried to stop him.

"I don't want to go. I want to go home!"

Every gathering tied to Philippa ended badly for me.

The first time, Philippa and a few of her friends took turns pushing drinks on me.

I nearly got dragged off by some leering men in that bar.

The second time, Philippa knew full well I was allergic, yet she deliberately slipped peanut butter into my food.

Then she snapped an ugly photo of my face swollen like a balloon and posted it to the work group chat.

I'd been burned that many times.

This time, I refused to be the toy they teased and laughed at.

Robert had long since forgotten any of it.

He still thought I was throwing a tantrum.

"Ethel, can you not be so selfish? Are you really asking me to give up all my friends for you?"

"Then go alone. I'm going home."

My head was fogged over. All I wanted was to rest.

And I had no strength left to argue with Robert.