Grant and I were secretly married for six years.
At his family foundationās gala, he slipped off his wedding ring to lead the opening dance with Meredith, his pregnant ex-fiancĆ©e.
He told the press she was the one who had always understood his dreams.
Every newspaper in Boston celebrated them finding their way back to each other.
When he came home, he warned me, āDonāt make a scene.ā
I didnāt.
On our wedding anniversary, I left a gift for him in his study.
A velvet box, the kind meant for a celebratory gift.
Inside were the divorce petition Iād already signed, the property settlement agreement, and the eight-week ultrasound of our baby, tucked beside an appointment confirmation for a termination procedure.
He never even glanced at it. He was already out the door, rushing to comfort his ex, who had supposedly āhad a nightmare.ā
He didnāt know heād just thrown away his last chance.
...
I looked at him, at the bare finger where his wedding ring should have been.
Grant rubbed the pale indentation, an unconscious gesture, as if soothing a phantom limb.
āThe gala was crowded. My grandmother was there,ā he explained, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. āIt would have caused unnecessary complications.ā
The excuse was so lazy it was almost laughable.
In the past, I would have pushed. I would have demanded to know where heād put the ring, made him fish it out of his suit pocket, and watched him slide it back on his finger. This was, after all, the man I had once fought so hard for. Over the years, Iād grown adept at making excuses for him.
Just like six months ago, when Meredith returned to Boston after her own divorce. Heād left me burning with a fever to drive halfway across the state to pick her up from the airport. When he got back, he ignored my protests and insisted on hiring her as a consultant for the family foundation.
Back then, Iād chalked it up to his sense of responsibility, to the pul......
