My husband couldn’t forget his “the one that got away.” Whenever he went to keep his terminally ill childhood sweetheart company, he would drop hints, asking if we could get a divorce. Because her dying wish was to legally be his wife. Today, he hinted at it again. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t cause a scene. I just calmly said, “Okay.” Because we had already had this exact conversation ninety-nine times. Today was the one hundredth. And I had finally found the perfect reason to convince myself to walk away. I had a miscarriage. Our baby was gone. Now, the only thing connecting him and me was a thin piece of paper—our marriage certificate.
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