The first thing I saw when I woke was a trending headline: Julian Gilbert, lighting sky lanterns at an auction, making a grand romantic gesture.
The media praised his generosity. Even his casual tips to the waitstaff were $50,000.
No one knew that Mrs. Gilbert—his own wife—couldn't scrape together $10,000, and had to watch her mother die right in front of her.
With a heart turned to ash, I called Julian and asked for a divorce.
All she got was a cold laugh.
"Done throwing your tantrum? What, upset you didn't get your money? Now you're resorting to threats?"
"Doris, you can't even figure out how to be a proper dog. I told you—I like obedient dogs!"
"Your mother's medical bills, her nursing care—who do you think paid for all of that? If you want her to keep breathing, you'll shut up and deal with it!"
Through the receiver came a woman's breathy moans.
Julian's breathing grew noticeably heavier.
The line went dead.
I hadn't even had the chance to tell him my mother was already gone.
The pain in my chest was unbearable.
Five years as Mrs. Gilbert, and every moment had been humiliating.
Even delivering divorce papers required me to wait in line.