Ashes of a Broken Marriage

Three years of marriage. Then his "one that got away" returned. He hit me for the first time—all to protect her. I clutched my stinging cheek.

He smoothed a BandAid over her finger. A laugh ripped from my throat. "Brooks. Let's get a divorce." His eyes stayed glued to her hand. "Fine.

Stop weaponizing divorce." Later, he actually died. A car wreck crushed him on his way to the airport. People said he drove out to meet someone. I still don't know who.

And I will never know if he regretted that slap in his final seconds. Chapter 1 Three years of marriage. And then his first love came back to the States.

I had spent the evening making his favorite slowroasted pot roast, waiting on the living room sofa until eleven o’clock. The deadbolt clicked.

I pushed up from the cushions, but before I could take two steps toward the foyer, the door swung open. He stepped inside—with a shadow lingering right behind his shoulder. Willow.

His college sweetheart. His first love. The woman whose photos he could never quite bring himself to delete from his camera roll. "Willow just flew in.

She doesn't have a place to stay yet, so she's crashing here for a few days." Brooks kicked off his loafers, his tone so casual it made my ears ring.

Willow stood behind him, offering a polite smile. "Hey. I'm so sorry to intrude on your space." My fingers curled, nails biting halfmoons into the rough fabric of my apron.

I forced the corners of my mouth up. "It's no problem at all. Let me get the guest room ready." It was nearly midnight by the time I finished making the bed.

I balanced a plate of sliced fruit against my hip, knocking gently on the halfopen door. Brooks was kneeling on the rug.

He was holding Willow's ankle. "Those heels really did a number on you. The skin is raw," he murmured. I froze in the doorway. The ceramic plate turned heavy in my hands.

I watched his thumb stroke the reddened skin just above her heel. I was too familiar with that movement.

For three years, every time a new pair of flats tore up my heels, that was exactly how he rubbed the pain away. "Brooks," Willow whispered, her eyes flicking toward the door.

He finally looked up, his gaze flicking to mine for a fraction of a second. He pushed up to his feet and brushed right past my shoulder into the hallway. Not a single word.

I stared down at my fuzzy slippers. It was fine. He had always been like this. On the third day of Willow living with us, Brooks got physical with me for the first time.

I was rinsing plates at the kitchen sink after dinner when a burst of bright, intertwined laughter drifted in from the living room. Drying my hands on a dish towel, I walked out.

Willow was leaning in close, holding her phone angled toward Brooks. Their shoulders brushed.

A hair’s breadth away from touching. "What are you guys looking at?" The words scratched their way up my dry throat.

Willow glanced up, her smile easy. "Just showing Brooks some pictures of the Northern Lights I took. He’s trying to pick a new lock screen." A new lock screen.

Since the day we got married, his lock screen had been a candid of me in my wedding dress, laughing until my eyes crinkled. "You're changing your background?" I stared at Brooks.

He finally met my eyes, his brow furrowing in deep irritation. "It's just a picture.

Do you have to be like this?" "That picture is of me." "Please don't misunderstand." Willow stood up, her fingers wrapping lightly around my forearm. "If it bothers you, we don't have to look at them.

Please don't overthink it." The second her skin touched mine, Brooks was on his feet. He stood up and pulled Willow's hand off my arm.

He stepped in front of her, a solid wall of muscle blocking her from me. He looked at me, his voice deepening. "Willow is just trying to be nice.

Don't be ungrateful." I stared at him. Chapter 2 Three years ago, on our wedding day, Brooks had too much to drink.

He pulled me against his chest, swearing I was the only woman he would ever need. I bought every single word. Then he kept her photos on his phone.

I gaslit myself into believing it was just nostalgia. Willow texted him constantly, and I convinced myself they were just old friends catching up.

Now she was living under my roof, and he was using his own body as a human shield to protect her from me.

And I was supposed to just swallow it down. "I barely spoke two sentences, and you're defending her like this." I heard my own voice trembling. "Brooks, who is your wife?" "That is enough." He stepped into my space.

His hand raised. I didn't flinch. The slap landed on my left cheek. It wasn't hard, but the slap was loud enough to echo.

The living room went dead silent. "Brooks!" Willow gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. I just kept my head turned, feeling the heat on my face. Brooks froze in place.

His hand hovered in midair, his expression a little stunned. Like he hadn't expected to hit me. I touched my cheek. It was burning.

Then I saw the blood welling up on Willow's skin.

She hovered near the sofa edge, a sharp gash sliced across her right index finger, bright crimson drops spilling over her knuckle. "I slipped opening a tin can earlier.

It's nothing," she murmured. Brooks crossed the room in three heavy strides. He ripped open the firstaid kit under the coffee table, dropping to one knee in front of her.

He gripped her wrist, swiping an iodinesoaked Qtip over the broken skin. "Hold still. This might sting," he rasped. I stared at the broad line of his back.

In three years of marriage, how many times had he patched me up? Never. I had never had a major illness or suffered a serious injury.

Whenever I sliced my finger chopping vegetables, I dug out the BandAids myself. He would just glance up from his laptop and tell me to be careful. He was always like that.

I thought he was just bad at it. Turns out he wasn't. He just didn't want to. I pivoted on my heel and locked myself in the master bedroom. He never came in.

The next morning, I found him sprawled on the living room sofa. The smell of toasted bread drifted from the kitchen. "I made breakfast sandwiches.

Join us," Willow beamed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Brooks sat up. His jaw worked as if trying to form an apology, but only silence filled the space between us.

I grabbed my purse at the entryway and shoved my feet into my boots. "Where are you going?" he demanded. "Work," I threw over my shoulder, never looking back.

I didn't go straight back to that apartment after clocking out. I spent two hours at a corner coffee shop, watching the rain streak the glass window.

My phone vibrated against the table. Brooks: When are you coming home? I let the screen go dark. It vibrated again. Brooks: Willow made dinner. We're waiting for you.

I stared at her name until the letters blurred into meaningless shapes, then flipped the phone face down against the wood. It was past 9 PM when I finally turned the key.

The living room lights blazed.

Brooks and Willow sat across from each other at the dining table, a spread of untouched food turning cold between them. "You're back." Willow stood up, looking a little panicked. "Let me heat these up for you." "Don't bother," I said, slipping out of my wet coat. "I already ate." Brooks stood.

He closed the distance, towering over me.

I had to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes. "About last night," he started, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I was out of line." I stared up at him.

My throat felt stuffed with cotton. "But it was an accident," his tone hardened, shifting the blame. "You came at me with that attitude.

I just lost control." A bitter, hollow laugh clawed at my throat. An accident. Lost control. I gave a single, slow nod. "Okay." He blinked, his posture faltering.

He clearly hadn't expected me to fold that easily.

Chapter 3 I sidestepped his towering frame and headed for the master suite. "What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice chasing my back. I paused at the doorframe.

I didn't turn around. "I meant exactly what I said. Okay." I stepped inside and shut the heavy oak door between us. The bed remained halfempty that night.

The next morning, I called out of work and drove to my OBGYN's office. The waiting room hummed with life. Husbands massaging their wives' swollen feet.

Expectant grandmothers fussing over ultrasound prints. And then there were the women sitting alone. I was one of the lonely ones.

When the results came out, I stood there looking at the paper for a long time.

Six weeks. "Is your partner here today?" the doctor asked, her pen hovering over my chart. "No." The word scraped my throat. "He couldn't make it." "Make sure he comes to the next appointment.

We have a lot to go over together." I nodded. Numb. Stepping out into the blinding afternoon sun, my hand instinctively drifted to my flat stomach.

This baby could not have picked a worse time. On the seventh day of Willow living with us, I finally asked for a divorce. Brooks actually made it home for dinner that night.

Willow had commandeered my kitchen, whipping up a massive spread. She waved me over, playing the perfect, glowing hostess. "Come sit!

The food is getting cold." I took my seat at the end of the table. Halfway through the meal, Willow's eyes lit up. "Brooks, the college reunion is next weekend.

We should go together." Brooks met her gaze. "Yeah. Sounds good." "Perfect." Her eyes curved into a smile. "It feels like forever since we attended one of these." We.

She said the word very naturally. I set my fork down. I wiped my mouth with a linen napkin, my movements painfully slow. I looked right at Brooks. "Brooks.

Let's get a divorce." A fork clattered against the hardwood on Willow's side of the table.

Brooks's head snapped toward me, his brow heavily creased. "What did you just say?" "I said," I repeated, word for word, "I want a divorce." His face darkened.

He tossed his chopsticks onto the table and stood up. "Are you out of your damn mind again?" I didn't flinch. I didn't even stand up. I just stared at him. "I'm not crazy.

I've never thought more clearly." Willow stood up, looking a little panicked. "Please don't do this. If I'm crossing a boundary, I can pack my bags tonight!

Don't ruin your marriage over me." "This has nothing to do with you." I shifted my gaze to her, my voice calm. "This is entirely on me." Brooks walked over and stood in front of me, looking down at me, his voice low. "Willow has been talking about coming back for years.

She finally returns, and you can't even show her a little basic grace?" My breath hitched. Homesick for years. He had kept tabs on her. For years. While sleeping in my bed.

I shoved my chair back and stood up, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Whatever history you two have—I don't care.

I don't even want to unpack how you've treated me for the last three years. I'm just done." Willow rushed forward. Her fingers clamped down hard on my forearm. "Please, stop!

If you really hate me that much, I'll leave—" "Take your hand off me." I stared dead at her grip. Her fingers dug tighter. Tears welled in her wide, doe eyes. "Please—" "Let.

Go." Brooks lunged. He didn't grab me. He yanked Willow's hand away, pulling her securely behind the broad expanse of his back.

His tone was harsh. "Why the hell are you screaming at her? What did she even do to you?" I looked at him standing in front of me like that. A physical barrier. A protector.

Three years of marriage. Not once had he ever stood in front of me like that. Not once had he shielded me from the world. A broken, ragged laugh tore out of my throat. "Brooks.

Sign the papers." Chapter 4 He went utterly still, his features hardening into stone. "Fine. We'll divorce.

Stop holding that over my head like a threat." "It's not a threat." I sidestepped his massive frame, heading straight for the master bedroom. "I’ll have the papers drafted.

Once they're signed, I'm out of here." Willow’s frantic voice chased me down the hall. "Brooks, go after her!

Fix this—" "Don't bother." His voice was angry. "She throws these little tantrums constantly. I’m so damn sick of it. She wants a divorce? Fine.

Let’s see how long she actually lasts." Throws tantrums. I had swallowed my pride for three years. And this was all he saw. The next morning, I sat in a sleek downtown law office.

The lawyer was a woman in her late forties named Diana.

She looked over my situation and frowned. "Do you have any proof of the physical abuse?" I shook my head slowly. "It was just the one time." "Medical records?

A police report?" "No." "Text threads? Voice memos? Photos of the bruising?" I stared at my lap, shaking my head again.

Diana let out a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Without a paper trail, if he contests the divorce, a judge will almost certainly throw the first filing out." "What if I just… wait?" "Wait for what exactly?" I didn't have an answer.

Stepping out of the law firm, I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, looking down at my stomach. Six weeks. In another two months, I wouldn't be able to hide it anymore.

But I didn't want this child to be born into a family like this. The apartment was pitchblack when I finally unlocked the door that night. The master bedroom door was shut.

As I walked past the wood paneling, low voices bled through the crack. Willow’s soft, breathless voice. "…don't.

She's going to get the wrong idea." Brooks’s deep baritone. "Just ignore her." I stood paralyzed in the hallway, letting those three words carve right into my chest.

Just ignore her. That was how he saw me. How he had always seen me. An afterthought. I pivoted sharply on my heel and locked myself in the spare room.

The next morning, I caught Brooks sitting on the living room sofa.

His eyes tracked me, his brow furrowing instantly. "Why didn't you sleep in our bed last night?" I shoved my feet into my heels, never once glancing up. "Just ignore me." His face practically drained of color.

He shot up from the cushions, his mouth opening to speak, but I pulled the front door shut behind me, cutting him off.

Two weeks after Willow moved in, Brooks laid his hands on me for the second time. A torrential downpour washed out the city that night.

I clocked out at nine, stepping into the lobby only to realize I didn't have an umbrella. My screen lit up with two unread notifications.

One was from Brooks, sent two hours ago: Not coming home for dinner. I swiped it away. The other was from a coworker: Did you bring an umbrella? I can give you a ride.

I typed back quickly: I’ve got one. Thanks anyway. I was lying. I stood downstairs for twenty minutes, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. Then my phone vibrated in my palm.

An unknown number. "Hi, is this Brooks's wife? He's had way too much to drink at our bar tonight. Can you come get him?" I confirmed the address and ended the call.

Rideshares were surging. Taxis splashed past, their roof lights dark. I walked for over a mile in the pouring rain. By the time I got to the bar, I was soaked to the bone.

The place was practically dead. My eyes locked onto Brooks instantly. He was slumped back in a leather booth, his head tipped back, a heavy alcohol flush painting his cheeks.

Willow sat pressed right up against his side. One of her hands gripped his broad shoulder to steady him. The other held a damp napkin, gently wiping the sweat from his jawline.

There was zero physical space between them. They were so close, I could practically see her warm breath washing over his lips. Chapter 5 I stood motionless in the entryway.

Freezing rain dripped from my soaked clothes, pooling onto the scuffed floorboards. Willow spotted me first. She blinked, recovering instantly with a sweet, waving hand. "Hey!

You made it. He had way too much to drink.

I was literally just about to call an Uber." I marched over, stopping dead in front of their booth. "Take your hands off him." She didn't flinch, her doe eyes locking onto mine. "I was just trying to—" "Take.

Your. Hands. Off." Brooks cracked his eyes open.

His heavy gaze landed on me, his brow instantly furrowing in deep irritation. "What are you doing here?" "Picking you up." He dragged himself upright, rolling his neck.

He pushed Willow aside and stood up, took two steps, then turned back to grab her hand. "Come on.

I'm taking you home." Willow let him pull her to her feet, her voice dropping into a breathless whisper. "Brooks, don't.

She's going to get upset—" "Why the hell would she care?" Brooks shot me a dark, alcohollaced glare. "You got a problem with this?" I stood there, my wet clothes sticking to my skin, shivering from the cold.

I didn't say a single word. He dragged Willow toward the exit. As his broad shoulder brushed past my wet frame, he paused. "We'll deal with this at home," he muttered.

Then he walked out, taking her with him. I stood under the neon bar sign for a long time. I watched him usher her into the back of a yellow cab.

As the taillights bled into the dark, the torrential downpour only hit harder. It was nearly midnight by the time I finally pushed the apartment door open.

The living room blazed with light. Brooks sat dead center on the sofa. Willow was nowhere in sight. "You get her to her room safe?" I rasped.

He looked up at me, his face dark. "What the hell was that attitude back there?" I hovered in the foyer, kicking off my ruined, waterlogged boots. "What attitude exactly?" "At the bar." He pushed up from the cushions, closing the distance between us. "Willow was kind enough to take care of me.

What was that look for?" I tilted my head back to meet his glare. "Taking care of you?

Since when does wrapping herself around you count as taking care of you?" "So what?" He took a step forward. "She is just a friend." "Right.

A friend." I gave a slow, empty nod. "A friend who strokes your jaw. A friend who wipes the sweat off your face.

A friend you abandoned your own wife in a storm to bring home." His expression shifted for a second, then darkened. "Why are you being so passiveaggressive?" I stared right through him.

He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. His grip was so strong that it made me gasp in pain. "Brooks.

Let go of me." His grip only tightened, the pressure grinding against my bones. "Willow spent years trying to get back to the States!

Why are you so damn obsessed with making her life miserable?" "I'm making her miserable?" A bitter laugh scraped my throat. "I opened my home to her!

I cook for her every single day! What more do you want from me?" "You cook for her?" He let out a dark, mocking sneer. "Did you see your own face?

Anyone could tell you weren't happy about doing it." I stared into the eyes of the man I married.

The crushing pressure on my wrist intensified until hot, prickling tears flooded my vision. "Let go," I demanded again, my voice trembling. He didn't release me.

Instead, his other hand shot up— The impact exploded against my cheek. Twice as hard as the first time