“I see that now,” she says. “I guess there’s no true way to break apart a love you thought would last forever.”

A love I still wish would last forever. A love I don’t want to give up on, but it very well might be out of my hands.

Unable to look her in the eyes, I ask, “Is that what you still want? To break this apart?”

“I didn’t break anything, Ryot. So don’t place that blame on me.”

“No, I’m not,” I quickly say. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant . . . do you still want the divorce?”

When I glance up at her, she looks me dead in the eyes, and without skipping a beat, she says, “Yes, I do.”

I rub my lips together and nod. “Can I ask why? Why you don’t think we can fix this?”

“Because I’m just so hurt. I feel so alone. The damage has already been done. I feel so resentful toward you, Ryot, a feeling I never thought I’d feel. I’ve only felt resentful toward two other people in my life, my mom and dad. I haven’t, nor will I ever be able to get over those feelings.”

“I’m nothing like your mom,” I say, the comparison slicing me open to my very core. I have never, ever raised a hand to her in anger. I could never do that.

“I know you’ve never hurt me physically, Ryot. I know you’d never do that.” Thank fuck.

“So how am I—”

“Because of how you’ve ignored me. When Mom wasn’t hurting me, wasn’t . . . pushing me into walls or into tables, she was cold and distant. And all I can remember was feeling so, so alone. Vulnerable. And then there was my dad. What he did . . . I felt so . . . abandoned. That is what I’ve been feeling for months. With you.” She takes a deep breath. I can barely stand, knowing I’ve hurt her so deeply. “It’s hard to realize as a wife that you come second, that your opinion doesn’t matter, that you will and can be forgotten. Something I knew a lot about growing up in a military family. I never had a say, and I hate that I married into that same situation. They say you marry your father, and it looks like I did. He broke me first. But you . . .” She sighs. “I’m not in a good mental space, Ryot. I don’t like being here. I want to be near Nichole . . .” Her eyes well up, and her teeth roll over her bottom lip, cluing me into something.

“Is . . . is something going on with Nichole?” I ask.

She dabs at her eyes and says, “The cancer might be back. She hasn’t told me. But I never wanted to leave Chicago—not my job, and not her. And I don’t feel good here. I don’t feel wanted. I don’t feel like myself, and if I stay in this space any longer, I know I’ll lose all the hard work I’ve put into making myself mentally healthier. I can’t go back, Ryot. I won’t.”