9
The next day, I unblocked Jesse. Our divorce
cooling–off period was over.
I scheduled a 9 a.m. appointment. Jesse
arrived late, dressed less formally, looking
dejected.
His eyes brightened when he saw me, then
dimmed.
I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm.
I couldn’t break free, frowning at him.
His eyelashes trembled. His voice was hoarse.
“Sarah, don’t leave me.”
<
My back tensed. My chest felt like it was
being torn open. I had truly loved him.
“I’m leaving,” I said, my voice strained. “Jesse,
I’m done.”
With those words came memories of our ten
years together.
Him in his school uniform, shooting hoops in
the sun, grinning, “Sarah, why are you so
late? Who am I supposed to show off to if
you’re not here?”
Him leaning on his hand, watching teachers
leaving work, grinning, “Sarah, want to eat
spicy hot pot after school?”
Him huddled against a wall, sick and pitiful,
“Sarah, I think I’m dying. Remember the dollar
in my math textbook on page 27? That’s all I
have…cough… Why’d you hit me?”
Him, blushing, kneeling in a sea of flowers.
“Sarah, you’re my everything now!”
His later returns home, growing later each
く
night; his phone lighting up with a message
while we planned our future, “I feel so bad,
can you come and keep me company?”
His growing annoyance, his dwindling words.
His flimsy excuse on my birthday, to be with
someone else: The company cat was sick and
needed care.
Ten years. My once–perfect boy, drifting
away.
Tears welled up. “Jesse, I’m done.”
