Then Patricia walked toward me.
I smelled her perfume before she reached me.
Floral.
Expensive.
Overpowering.
After eight years, I had learned to associate that scent with every occasion when Patricia intended to remind me how little she thought of me.
“You should be grateful Grant put up with you for as long as he did,” she said with a smile. “Some women simply don’t know when they’ve been replaced.”
Replaced.
She finally said it openly.
I already knew about the other woman.
I had known for almost a year.
First came the hotel receipt in Grant’s blazer.
Then perfume that didn’t belong to me.
Then the sudden explosion of “client dinners” that lasted until two in the morning.
Her name was Brooke.
Twenty-six years old.
She worked at the same firm where Grant was a junior partner.
And from everything I had been able to learn, Brooke didn’t even realize at first that the man she was seeing still had a wife at home.
A wife managing his house.
His social calendar.
His family obligations.
And a marriage she still believed was worth saving.
I looked toward Grant.
He stood at the edge of the group adjusting his gray suit jacket.
The same suit I had helped him choose at a tailor on Peachtree.
The same suit he had worn to his father’s funeral.
The same one he wore to mine.
And now the same suit he wore while our marriage officially ended.
I waited for him to say something.
Anything.
Tell his mother to stop.
Defend me once.
Show me that eight years had meant something.
Instead, Grant looked away.
That tiny movement answered every question I had carried throughout our marriage.
Had he ever truly chosen me?
Had he ever been willing to stand between me and Patricia when it mattered?
No.
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