Her independence day had arrived. Everything was ready, but her stomach was tied in knots. She put on her sweats and running shoes while Foster got ready to go to the university. She wanted it to look like a typical morning.
After a quick, but silent breakfast, he kissed her cheek and went out to his car. She watched him from the door, remembering the good times they had had together—in France, exploring those stunning, ancient caves, here in Evanston walking along the shoreline, watching nightfall over Lake Michigan. They often had dinner in Chicago and went to the theater. On weekends, they joined crowds on the Navy Pier and wandered through the shops.
We laughed a lot. What happened to the laughter?
A tear slid down her cheek. There were some good memories. They were the ones she wanted to keep. When it was good. She wiped the tear and pressed her finger against the scar.
This was the right decision—it was her only choice. She couldn’t ask him for a divorce; her conversation with the attorney had made that clear. There was no way he would agree to it. She shuddered to think what he would do if he even thought she wanted to leave. She had to go now so she would be safely out of his range when he got home and found her gone.
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