I used to think I was the happiest woman in the world because I had the best husband. The kind of man other wives in the Family envied. Attentive. Present. The kind who brought flowers on Sundays and kissed your forehead before leaving for business he never explained. But reality hit me hard. It had all been a ridiculous facade. People's hearts are hidden behind their ribs, and their lies are scribbled on paper. Or in text messages sent from a safehouse in Maplewood where another woman was sleeping in sheets he paid for with money that belonged to the Family.
I set the phone facedown on the nightstand and closed the window myself.
The rain hit the glass from the outside. The silence pressed from within.
A few days later, I received the divorce papers my fixer had drafted.