«Because I’m not rich. Because I’m not sophisticated enough for your new friends.»
He stopped packing and looked at me directly. «Because your simplicity disgusts me, Grace. The way you think, the way you dress, the way you live. It’s all so small and limited and beneath what I deserve now. You’re not worthy of the life I’ve built.»
Not worthy. After six years of sacrifice, after giving up everything, after loving him with every piece of my heart, I wasn’t worthy.
«I want a divorce,» he said, zipping up his suitcase. «My lawyer will contact you with the details. You can stay here for another month while you figure out where to go. After that, I’m selling the place.»
He walked toward the door, then paused. «For what it’s worth, Grace, I did appreciate what you did. Back then. But that was a long time ago, and gratitude doesn’t build a future. I’m sorry you can’t see that.»
Then he left. I stood alone in our bedroom, hearing the front door close, hearing his footsteps fade down the hallway. The candles in the dining room had burned out.
The anniversary dinner sat untouched, and eight years of my life had just walked out the door, taking my heart with it.