I was sitting in a county assistance office applying for food stamps, 33 years old, living in a women’s shelter after my husband drained our accounts and vanished with my own sister. The case worker typed in my social security number and stopped. She stared at her screen for a long moment, then picked up the phone. 2 hours later, a man in a $3,000 suit walked through the door and asked for me by name.
Before I continue with my story, you know, it really helps to know that someone out there is listening. So, if this is resonating with you in any way or if it simply caught your attention, please let me know in the comments. Tell me where you’re watching from or just say hello. There’s something incredibly comforting about knowing I’m not alone in this. Thanks a lot. Now, back to the story.
The first time I found her earring in our bed, I told myself it must have been mine. This was a Thursday in October, 3 weeks before everything ended. I’d come home early from my shift at the clinic. We were a small veterinary practice, just me and Dr. Keller and two techs, because I’d started getting migraines again. Nathan wasn’t supposed to be home until 6:00. He worked in pharmaceutical sales, which meant a lot of driving, a lot of long days, a lot of overnight trips to Atlanta or Charlotte.
I changed out of my scrubs, took two aspirin, and got into bed to sleep it off. That’s when I felt it under the pillow. A small gold hoop with a tiny pearl, delicate, not mine. I turned it over in my fingers. My mind did what minds do when they’re not ready for something. It made excuses. Maybe it was mine and I’d forgotten. Maybe it was old. Maybe the cleaning lady. Except we didn’t have a cleaning lady anymore, not since Nathan said we needed to cut back. I put it in my jewelry box and forgot about it. Or I tried to.
Nathan and I had been married for 7 years. We met when I was 25 and he was 28 at a friend’s birthday party at a rooftop bar in Charlotte. He was handsome in the way that made other women look at me with surprise when they saw us together. Not because I was unattractive, but because he had that quality, that shine that made you feel like the only person in the room when he was talking to you. I know now that this is a skill, not a gift, that some people work at it the way others work at a golf swing. He told me later that he’d noticed me standing by the railing, looking out at the city lights, and that I seemed sad. I wasn’t sad, I was tired. I’d worked a 12-hour shift and my feet hurt and I was thinking about whether I could leave without being rude. But sad was more romantic. I suppose sad was something he could fix.
