But on too many late nights, I watched from the window as Melvin walked Greta to our front door. The two of them holding hands, embracing, and not once did either of them seem to remember that I was her husband.
Years of turning a blind eye hadn't earned me Greta's heart. If anything, it only emboldened her.
Her expression twisted. "Victor, wasn't all of that your own choice? Did I ever force you? Didn't you say you loved me? If you love me, why keep score?"
Melvin shook his head at me. "Victor, real love doesn't ask for anything in return. It doesn't keep a tally. The fact that you're counting every little thing proves you don't deserve to use the word 'love.'"
Between the two of them, in just a few sentences, they'd painted me as some petty, scheming lowlife.
Hearing Melvin's words, Greta's lips curled into a sneer.
"Victor, nine years ago you were nothing but a castoff about to be thrown out of the family. If I hadn't taken you in, you'd probably still be digging through trash somewhere. You gambled on me making a comeback, didn't you? Well, congratulations, your bet paid off. What more could you possibly want?"
My heart went cold. Completely, irreversibly cold.