Page 4 of Everything For Love

“And I’m not convinced you’re not cheating on me.”

I groan. “I’m not having an affair.”

“Then where are you getting sex from? Because it’s not from me.”

I hold up my hand, mostly to piss her off. “Where areyougetting sex from?” Her mouth drops open and then closes. “Is that what’s going on here? You don’t want me, so who do you want?”

“No one.”

It’s my turn to scoff and I do so loudly. “Now who’s not being honest, Aubrey?”

She says nothing.

“What’s his name? Does he come here after I leave for work? Is that why you asked me why I wasn’t leaving this morning?”

She still says nothing, but I can see the guilt—or something—all over her face.

“What’s his fucking name, Aubrey?”

Without thinking, I push away from the table and the bowl of fruit goes flying, crashing onto the floor. Glass shatters and spreads across the hardwood.

“Look at what you did.”

“It was an accident.” I head toward the closet to get the broom. When I come back, she’s sobbing. I say nothing to her as I clean up the mess and ignore the crocodile tears. “I’m going to ask you again, Aubrey. What do you want?”

Another sob.

“Are you crying because I broke the bowl or because you’re projecting your guilt onto me with this affair bullshit. I mean, I guess it makes sense. Up until the day you began turning away from my advances, we fucked like rabbits. Then boom, you have a headache. Do you still have a headache, or do you want to go fuck?” It’s crass. I know this, but anger does funny things to one’s thought process.

“You’re being a pig.”

“Yep.” I agree with her. “What do you want, Aubrey?”

“A divorce.”

Even as she says the word, I don’t want to believe her. But there it is. It’s the freedom she wants. I dump the glass and fruit into the garbage and walk down the hall to the closet. After putting the broom and dustpan away, I slam the door. Not once. Not twice. But three times. “Fuck!” I yell as I run my hands roughly through my hair, tugging at the ends. Going back into the kitchen, she still sits there, staring at who knows what.

“Is that what you want, Aubrey? Do you really want a divorce?”

She nods.

I nod as well but she’s not looking at me. “You can have it, but you’re not taking the kids. I won’t allow it.”

“I’m their mother,” she roars and spins in the chair to face me.

“And I’m their father,” I say, pointing at my chest. “You’re not uprooting them to go back to a country they’ve never been to before so they can live in a yurt while you play nurse. Which, I’ll point out, you haven’t done in over ten years. You don’t even have a valid nursing license!” I scream the last bit as I head towards the front door.

“It’s in the works and will be valid by the time I get there.”

“You can have the divorce, but you’re not taking the kids. Merry fucking Christmas.” Those are the words I say as I head out the front door.

2

We had weeks of peace and then all hell breaks loose. Apparently, I wasn’t moving fast enough for her—with what, I’m unsure—but dragging my feet didn’t sit well with her.

Like any other night, I come home and find the kids sitting at the table doing their homework. After a quick hi, I take my bag into my office and think about sitting down to relax for a bit after dealing with multiple cases of the flu, a bout of chickenpox, and a baby who won’t stop crying every time his mother picks him up. After an exam, I noticed some bruising she couldn’t explain, and I had no choice but to follow my gut instinct and call child services. By the time they arrived, she had broken down and admitted to hitting him. Fun fucking times.

“Come in,” I say after a knock sounds.

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