The next morning, at 8:06 a.m., I called my lawyer.
At 8:23, I called my company.
At 9:10, the house was discreetly placed on private sale.
At 11:49…
while my son was sitting in his office believing his life was safe,
I signed the papers.
And without her?
It all started to fall apart.
That night, he showed up in my apartment.
Angry. Desperate.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
I looked at him calmly.
“You hit me thirty times,” I said.
“And you think I’m the problem?”
He tried to justify himself.
He said I had provoked him.
That’s when something inside me finally died forever.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I looked him straight in the eye.
“I want you to leave before Friday. I want you to face everything you’ve done. And I want you to remember every number of one to thirty… before raising your hand again.”
A week later, his life was in ruins.
His work suspended him.
His wife’s gone.
The house was gone.
The image I had built?
She went with her.
