I listened to her words in silence, absorbing the finality in her tone. After a moment, I spoke calmly. "Sofia, I've already printed the divorce agreement. If you have time, come back so we can sign it."
As soon as I finished speaking, a heavy silence enveloped the other end of the line. A sense of finality washed over me as I hung up the phone.
Approximately an hour later, the familiar creak of the front door shattered the quietude of my home. Sofia stood in the doorway, her face etched with a mixture of confusion and irritation.
"Rowan, what is wrong with you today?" Her voice was sharp, carrying an undercurrent of accusation. "You've mentioned divorce twice. This isn't like you at all."
Indeed, it wasn't. For years, I had been the epitome of the perfect husband. I had shielded her from her parents, covered up her indiscretions, even tolerated the intrusions of her former lover. But her treatment of me had been far from reciprocal.
I recalled the countless hours spent in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove to appease Lewis' picky palate. Her subsequent criticism cut deeply, wounding my heart. I endured it all, my love for her acting as a shield against her words.