She went out to the balcony and didn’t hang up for several minutes.
When she returned, Veronica looked exhausted. Her voice was tinged with a hint of pleading.
“William, I’ll handle this. Give me some time. Don’t joke about divorce.”
I nodded. “Alright, I’ll give you time.”
She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and moved to hug me.
I stood up to avoid her, saying, “I’m tired. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
She froze, staring at me with a deathly pale face.
That night, I lay awake. At three in the morning, I got up thirsty for water and heard noises in the study.
The door wasn’t fully closed. I saw my wife, flamboyant and unrestrained, like a fiery rose.
Holding the photo that should have been in the trash can, she was overwhelmed with emotion.
At last, she whispered two shaky words, “Yohan.”
In that instant, I felt a part of my soul die completely.
The fortune-teller had indeed been wrong.
Veronica didn’t cheat in our fifth year of marriage, but her heart had left long before her body did.
The next day, I insisted on a divorce, but Veronica refused to sign the papers.
She came home on time every day, neatly folding my clothes and arranging my ties. She thought this could erase everything.