"Apart from divorce, I have nothing to say to you," my husband, Kyle, declared, his voice a blade of ice. "Fine," I replied, my hand trembling as it gripped the diagnosis of stomach cancer. "I agree to the divorce."
From his phone, a woman's gentle voice cooed, "Honey, are you ready? We need to go to the hospital for the baby's check-up." My world, already crumbling, shattered. For three years, I had believed in our marriage, while he had a mistress and a son, and I had lost my own child.
My pain turned to bitter revelation: our entire marriage had been a brutal plot by Kyle to avenge his sister. I was just a victim of his hate.
On the rooftop's edge, I faced him one last time. "Kyle, when will you give up on revenge? If I die, will you put down your hate?"
His chilling response, "Claudia, I don't believe you have the guts to jump," was the final push. Before he could finish, I jumped.
