My husband left me on the side of the road with these words: “You’re worthless to anyone.” But an hour later, a limousine he’d only seen in movies pulled up in front of me…
“Sell. And please, Clara, without your dramatic sighs,” the voice of Alberto, my husband, cut through the air as I looked out the window at the old chestnut trees. The same ones under which, as a child, I hid slips of paper with secrets.
“Alberto, I told you… we agreed not to reopen this topic.”
“Agreed? I didn’t agree with anyone. I just gave you time to accept the inevitable.”
I walked through the apartment I inherited from my grandmother, running my finger along the dusty piano lid as if evaluating merchandise ready for sale.
“For me, this place isn’t just an apartment. It’s memory.”
“You can’t live off memory. I need capital.” “Or would you rather we remain trapped forever on an office salary?”
He knew how to hit where it hurt the most: the guilt. The fear of not being a good wife, of holding back his future.
“But I promised my grandmother I’d never sell…”
