“Oh, come on, Laura. To me, you’ve been nothing more than a housekeeper for years. I want to actually live for myself now.”
Twenty-three years.
Two children.
Every school form, every dentist appointment, every Sunday roast.
And that was the word he chose.
Housekeeper.
Sheila laughed, a bright little sound, and that hurt almost as much as his words.
I could feel the room staring.
Somewhere behind me, a fork touched a plate and stopped.
I wanted the dark wood floor to open and swallow me.
I turned around because I could not stay another moment.
David Whitaker was standing right behind me.
He had heard everything.
His face was the color of old paper, and his jaw was locked so tightly that a muscle jumped under his ear.
“Laura,” he said quietly.
“I need to leave.”
“I understand.”
He put a glass of ice water into my hands.
The glass was so cold it hurt.
