9
After instructing my lawyer,
I contacted Summer and met her at a nearby
pub.
Hearing about the divorce, she thought I was
joking.
“Sarah, he’s your first love; you’ve been
together for almost seven years. Are you
really willing to let go?”
Summer wasn’t sympathetic, but reproachful.
I’d quit my job,
becoming a stay–at–home wife, which
angered her.
Our project was nearing completion, and my
absence nearly delayed it.
I finished my drink, apologizing sincerely.
I’d sacrificed my future for my family.
In his eyes, it was contemptible. My regret
was understandable.
“I was rash, I didn’t consider you. If you’ll
Г
forgive me…”
Before I finished, Summer refilled my glass.
“Cut the crap; you’re not leaving until you’re
drunk.”
“I’m going abroad next week. Get your
passport done; don’t delay!”
Tears welled as I drank.
Leaning on Summer’s shoulder, I sobbed
uncontrollably.
Seven years of love, ending so abruptly.
It was difficult.
But I knew this harmful relationship would
only trap me deeper.
One decisive cut was better than continued
entanglement.
