My phone rang. It was June, Aila’s sister. I had always liked June. She was the sensible one.
“Liam,” she said, her voice hushed. “I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything, June.”
“Can you… can you please take the video down?” she asked. “Aila is getting death threats. Someone posted the school’s number online. She had to resign this morning before they fired her.”
“Good,” I said. The word tasted like ash.
“Liam, please. I know you’re hurting, but she’s destitute. She’s at a Motel 6. She has nothing.”
“She has Rowan,” I said.
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Rowan isn’t with her,” June whispered. “He… he left town yesterday. He told her he couldn’t deal with the drama. He blocked her number.”
I let out a short, dark laugh. Of course.
“So,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Rowan got what he wanted and ran when the bill came due. And Aila is learning that when you blow up your foundation, you have to live in the rubble.”
“She’s my sister, Liam. She’s suicidal.”
“Then call a doctor, June. I’m not her husband anymore. I’m just the guy she robbed.”
I hung up.
The divorce was swift and brutal.
In our state, adultery affects the division of assets if financial misconduct can be proven. I had the receipts. I had the proof that household funds were used to feed and support Rowan while the affair was ongoing. I had the video.
Aila didn’t contest it. She couldn’t afford a lawyer, and her parents, humiliated by the public nature of the scandal, refused to bankroll a defense for indefensible behavior.
I kept the house. I kept my pension. I kept the accounts. She walked away with her clothes and a 2013 Honda Civic her parents bought her after the SUV was repossessed.
Three months later, the winter had set in. I was sitting in the same kitchen, drinking coffee, looking out at the frost on the lawn. The silence in the house wasn’t terrifying anymore. It was peaceful.
The doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
It was Aila.
She looked like a ghost. She had lost at least twenty pounds. Her hair was dull, pulled back in a fraying elastic. She wore a coat that looked too thin for the weather.
I opened the door, but I stood in the frame, blocking the entrance.
“Liam,” she breathed, a cloud of vapor rising in the cold air. “Please. Just five minutes.”
“Why?”
“I just… I need to see you.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I lost everything, Liam. My job. My friends. My family barely speaks to me. I’m working at a diner two towns over, sleeping on a friend’s couch.”
I looked at her. I waited for the pang of sympathy. I waited for the love that had sustained me for twelve years to rear its head.
But there was nothing. Just pity for a stranger.
“You made your choice,” I said.
“It was six weeks of stupidity!” she cried, tears welling in her eyes. “Six weeks that destroyed twelve years! Doesn’t the twelve years mean anything?”
“No,” I said softly. “You destroyed the twelve years in the six weeks. You burned the history book, Aila. You can’t read the pages you burned.”
Her face crumpled. She looked old. “I know I did this. I know. But please… I’m begging you. Just help me get back on my feet. I’ll do anything. I still love you.”
