He left. I’m waiting for you. Your L.
L. Just one letter. The cursed letter after which my life split into “before” and “after.”
Now I was standing in the rain, soaked through, and through the glass I watched as my husband kissed another woman—at her home, in her living room. Slowly. Carefully. With such natural confidence only someone who has been meeting secretly for a long time can have.
And in the morning, as if nothing had happened, he drank coffee in our kitchen and, in the same steady voice, talked about a fussy client.
“Everything’s fine, Ler,” he said without taking his eyes off the phone.
I answered with a smile.
“Of course. Fine.”
An hour later I was sitting in my lawyer’s office. He flipped through the papers and looked at me:
“You want him to lose nothing?”
“Yes. Nothing.”