“Cam—” His voice broke completely. “Please. I’m your husband. Eleven years. You can’t— you can’t just do this to me. After everything—”
And there it was. The appeal to the thing he’d spent eleven years destroying.
I took out my phone. I’d prepared one last thing, the night before, and I turned the screen to face him so he could read it.
A message, ready to send to the handful of people in our life who mattered. A photo of the two of us from a happier year, and beneath it, three sentences.
We’re over. He drained our marriage into a shell company and ran. I deserve better — and I always did.
“You sent our friends a photo at the airport,” I said. “Calling me a useless woman you’d stripped of everything. I thought it was only fair that I get to send one too.” I lowered the phone. “The difference is, Garrett, mine is true.”
