Sure enough, the jerk texted: [Matthew's not a baby anymore, Emily. He can manage himself. Claire needs me.]
[Let's divorce then.] I sent back, unregretful. Cheers to closing thirty horrible years of my life!
Andrew used to be my world. We grew up together, went to school together. Everyone knew I followed him like a shadow. I supported him in everything, even when he was with Claire.
When did I start loving him? Maybe it was always there.
You know, a slow burn that turned into a fierce flame. After Claire left, I confessed, and long story short, we married, had Matthew, and for a while, I thought it was enough.
But I was wrong. Turns out I am just the second-best: someone conveniently close around but never someone he wants to have around.
Still, maybe it was my fault. I should've fled right away back then, but this dumb person chose to be even more dumber.
That was then, though. I've learned my lesson. Sadly, I had to learn it in the most tragic way.
I knelt at my son's grave, tears long dried. I only entrusted him with his father once, and look at what happened. I couldn't even imagine how lonely and scared Matthew must have been when he died.