The last text had a date of the day after our accident. The one about the proposal had a date of the week before the accident. My hands started shaking as nausea rolled through my body. I continued going through the messages. Every few weeks, they would meet up. He sent her child support, and he wrote he loved her and Evelyn every night. I knew I was just making this worse, but I checked his pictures.

Henry loved to take photos of us and if I knew him like I thought I did, then I knew what I was going to find. I clicked on his pictures….

What the fuck?

The last set of pictures he took was of all three of them out as he proposed to her. Evelyn must have taken the pictures because her face was popping in and out of the frame, but she captured most of the proposal. I clicked on a picture to see the date and I saw red. I screamed and threw the phone. How could he!? How… How… How could someone be so cruel?

Throwing a few things off his desk, I felt better once I made a mess, but it didn’t satisfy me. I threw everything off his desk. I broke the picture of us he had on the ledge of the window. It was our first anniversary together in Italy. Did he care about anything that had happened during our marriage? I played back memories of us together. Was he lying the entire time, every miscarriage, every work trip, every call he had to make for work, every damn fucking day? I pulled everything out of his drawers, slamming them on the desk. I threw a signed baseball, and I didn’t care what damage I was doing.

I tore papers, smashed more photo frames, and threw more things across the room. My anger turned into tears, but I kept going. I was throwing books around, and bringing down his bookshelves. I couldn’t stop destroying and for a moment I felt like I was having a Carrie Underwood moment except I would not get the satisfaction to see his reaction to all the stuff he valued broken.

Leaving for the kitchen, I pulled a knife from the block. I grabbed a wine bottle from the wine fridge, opened, it and chugged half the bottle. I went back to his favorite Chesterfield leather sofa and stabbed the cushions, tearing into anything I could. My tears blurred my vision enough that I couldn’t see anything anymore.