My Husband Tricked Me Into a Fake Divorce,But I Left for Good

After the cab dropped me home, I started clearing out everything Charles had given me over the years.

A ring made from a soda-can tab, a crown woven from wild grass, love letters he'd handwritten and printed…

Less than an hour of sorting, and it all fit into two boxes. Almost nothing in them was worth a cent.

Even this cramped, run-down apartment was something I'd only been able to rent by working five or six jobs at once, and I was still three months behind on the rent.

I looked at those two boxes of cheap little things, and they looked back like a mirror of my marriage—cheap, and stripped of any dignity.

Because it was worthless, it was never worth cherishing.

Something gnawed at my chest like a million termites, a thick, crawling ache, until my eyes reddened and my vision blurred.

I carried the two boxes downstairs and, piece by piece, began to burn them.

As if I were saying goodbye to the person I used to be.

Then a startled voice cut in: "Ahem… what's wrong with you, you little maid? Still out here burning things to make offerings to the dead? How unlucky can you get!"

I turned. It was Prudence Pruitt, dressed head to toe in wealth.

The girl my parents had once sponsored. Later she became my adoptive sister.

When Prudence saw me, there was no surprise in her eyes—only a haughty, gloating triumph and a taunt she couldn't wait to throw.

"Well, if it isn't Prudence Pruitt—oh, wait, that's not right. I heard you changed your name. What is it now, Louise Mason? You took your dead mother's surname. Doesn't the bad luck bother you?"

My gaze darkened. I warned her, "Prudence. Watch your mouth."

She covered her lips and laughed softly, saying it on purpose. "Your mom's been dead, what, twelve years now? And you still can't let her go? Figures. Trash raises trash."

Fury boiled up from somewhere deep, and I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the face.

She didn't flinch. Instead, something calculating flickered in her eyes, and behind it, the pleasure of getting exactly what she wanted.

The next second, my left cheek exploded with pain, and I hit the ground with no chance to catch myself.

I looked up and saw Charles frantically helping Prudence up, his eyes full of concern for her. "Are you okay? It looks swollen. Let me get you some ice first."

"Actually, let's just go straight to the hospital. Don't worry, I'm here. Nothing bad is going to happen."

With that, Charles scooped Prudence up in his arms, turned, and walked off.

From beginning to end, he never once looked at me.

I watched his retreating back, and all at once I remembered a time when some thugs had harassed me at one of my jobs, and Charles had said the very same thing.

He'd said, "Don't worry, I'm here. Nothing bad is going to happen."

Later I asked him, "Have you ever said that to other girls too?"

He answered without a shred of hesitation, "Never. If a day like that ever came, it would only mean I'd fallen for someone else."

Now those words were his to give to Prudence.

Every word of explanation I wanted to give jammed in my throat, and not a single one would come out.

Grievance is meant for the ears of someone who cares. Explanations are meant for someone who'll judge you fairly.