The “Eleanor Center” was nearing completion when Michael showed up at the construction site. He didn’t look like the polished man I married. He looked haggard, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. He bypassed the security gate and stood in the middle of the site, screaming my name.
I walked out to meet him. This time, I didn’t have a driver or a guard between us. I stood ten feet away, in my hard hat and work boots.
“Emma! Look at this!” he gestured wildly at the steel beams. “You’re building a monument to your hate! I loved you! I just wanted you to be better!”
“No, Michael,” I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. “You wanted me to be small. You wanted me to be so small that I could fit into the pocket of your robe while you spent money that wasn’t yours and planned for a future where I was dead.”
I held up the insurance folders. His face went from red to a sickly, pale grey.
“Grandma didn’t just buy the house, Michael. She bought the bank’s digital archives. We have the search history from your home computer. ‘How to simulate hypothermia.’ ‘Insurance payouts for weather-related accidents.’ Do you really want to keep talking about ‘love’ in front of the District Attorney?”
