If he had only asked for a divorce, I would have let him go. I wouldn’t have begged. I wouldn’t have fought. I would have left quietly.
My phone buzzed. I looked down. There it was—an old photo.
Damian and me, grinning outside the campus gates. So young. So foolishly hopeful.
We came from nothing: dirt roads, worn-out uniforms, empty stomachs.
Damian had suffered more than I knew.
His mother died giving birth to him. His father, a soldier, never returned from the war. He was sent to live with an uncle and aunt, a house that looked decent from the outside but was a prison inside. They made him scrub floors until his hands bled, beat him for spilling water, locked him out when guests arrived.
I remember how thin and pale he was, how carefully he hid his bruises. I used to give him half of my lunch every day.
Once, I dared stand up to his uncle. The man nearly killed me. I spent a week in the hospital.
Damian came to my bedside. “Clara,” he whispered, “when I grow up, I’ll be a lawyer. I’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.”
And he did.
He worked his way up, became a respected attorney. Everyone admired the poor boy who made good.
I became a doctor. We thought we had beaten the odds.