Harrison didn't hesitate. He accepted our son's twisted narrative as gospel, his voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze marrow.
"Sara, how old are you? You're a grown woman throwing tantrums like a toddler. What's the point?"
His lecture continued, sharp and condescending. "Blake is right. You really should learn from Vera—learn to be broad-minded instead of so self-absorbed."
I closed my eyes. Hot tears leaked out, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto the fresh wound on my foot. The salt stung raw skin—a sharp, piercing reminder of reality.
Harrison didn't give me a chance to speak. He didn't want explanations; he wanted a target.
I had intended to tell him the truth. Hours ago, I'd sent him a WeChat message explaining I was at the hospital bandaging my foot and wouldn't be making dinner. I didn't know why he hadn't seen it—or if he'd simply chosen to ignore it.
But now, the words died in my throat.
If they actually cared about the truth, they would have asked. Even a blind man can feel his way there if he tries. But Harrison and Blake refused to lift the blindfold. I could shove evidence under a magnifying glass and they'd still claim they saw nothing.
Why bother? Justifying myself now would only invite more humiliation.
The mirage of my perfect marriage evaporated, leaving nothing but dry, barren ground.
I wiped my face. When I spoke, my voice was flat.
"Harrison, let's get a divorce."
