"Then let's divorce. That way, you can't blame me for holding Professor Gilbert back from his promotion."
Thomas stiffened. When the weight of my words settled, he scoffed.
"You want a divorce? Don't joke. Without me, do you really think you'd live this comfortably?"
He pulled out his phone and transferred $100 to my account. The note read: *Buy burn ointment.*
"Fix that hand. A scar that size is hideous. You're both women, yet your hands don't have half the elegance of Hazel's."
He reached into his pocket and handed me a smartphone.
"Hazel doesn't use this one anymore. You can have it."
Having dispensed his charity, he turned and jogged back toward Hazel's ward without a backward glance.
Three years ago, after my first miscarriage, Thomas stayed by my bedside for a month. When I cried from the pain, he wept harder than I did.
Three years later, he caused both my miscarriage and my injury, yet he felt nothing. He dismissed me with a hundred dollars and a discarded phone.
He bought Hazel the newest model, while I was only fit for her scraps.
Unfortunately, I have never liked secondhand goods—whether phones or men.