The Widow Next Door by L. A. Detwiler

Author:L. A. Detwiler [Detwiler, L. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008324636
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my blonde hair falling down my back, I rocked in the chair as I studied the falling snow. My shallow breaths felt like they were stabbing my lungs, tears welling in my eyes as darkness drifted over the lane.

Where the hell was he? Where was his car?

I rocked back and forth, squeezing the blanket tighter, biting my lip as I stared at the street like the fool that I felt like. What an idiot I was, sitting there like the abandoned damsel, at his mercy.

I hated myself for it. I hated the weakness in him that was rubbing off on me. Most of all, I hated him.

The rage had been building lately, and nothing he could say would make it go away. He could defend himself all he wanted, swear up and down that it was madness to accuse him, but I wouldn’t be made a fool. I knew what he was doing, or more accurately, who.

And I hated being made to look like an idiot. I hated, more than that, how I’d let myself be in a position to need him. Hadn’t I learned my lesson growing up? It was foolish to need anyone. You needed to rely only on yourself. I’d broken that golden rule, thinking love would change everything.

But it hadn’t. It hadn’t changed a thing. There I was, a damn housewife at his beck and call, childless, and not living the life I’d hoped for.

And there he was, some desk job worker without a prayer for promotion, without a spine, and without the ability to give me what I really wanted: a child.

We’d been through the protocol, the encouragements, and the doctors’ visits. We’d been told to make peace.

But making peace had never really been how I did things. I arguably had different coping methods.

Sometimes, in the midst of our fights, a twang of guilt would creep in, a subtle pinging of my moral compass that what I was doing was wrong. But I couldn’t stop it. The only thing stronger than my will to maintain power was my desire to make him hurt.

Plain and simple. He needed to be hurt. He deserved it.

A few minutes later, the anger now pure fury bubbling inside, his car glided down the street. I sat at the window a moment longer, waiting for the familiar sound of the car door slamming. I rocked, back and forth, back and forth, the momentum inciting my resolve.

The idiot I was married to was going to pay. The bastard would pay.

I heard his footsteps creep along the floor, his briefcase plop onto the table. I kept rocking.

‘Honey?’ he asked, the fool, using the term I’d come to hate.

‘Where were you?’ I spewed out, studying his reflection in the window. I smirked at the frailness in his stance, at how broken and weak he truly looked.

‘We’ve been through this,’ he practically whispered. ‘The boss gave me another set of reports I have to do on Wednesdays. I’m only a few minutes later than usual.

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