My Funeral, His Destruction Stage

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and, dramatic exits, then punish me with his absence. I knew his patter

aisy off at school, I was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted me. The scent of someth

ncentration I had rarely seen him apply to anything outside of his architectural blueprints. A children' s c

re, was in my kitchen, attempting to bake a delicate dessert for his mistress' s

sn' t here to witness this charade. The image of her innocent face, so hopeful just yesterday, would have sh

es. It was Fernanda' s child. She ran to Carter, her voice bright and clear.

at our daughter in years curving his lips. He bent down, scooped her u

t in secret, using the very foundations of my life. My eyes bu

avy, as if I were wading through thick mud. I felt like an alien observe

nd. He was completely absorbed i

ter' s, narrowed. "Daddy, she' s staring at me," she whimpere

ou." His voice was laced with a venomous sweetness, a clear message meant for me. Then

his child with such tenderness, a tenderness he had denied Daisy. A bitterness, sharp as acid, rose in my throat. He was a doting father to one, a neglectful monster to an

no longer useful, he was discarding me like an old, worn-out possession. The realization hit me with the forc

em to see me like this. I turned abruptly, stumbling out of the kitchen, racing to the s

ighted giggle, Carter' s deep, resonant chuckle. It was a symphony of betrayal, playing

ely. He wasn' t just having an affair; he was building a new life, a new fami

mage, not of his claims to Daisy. The thought was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. He was probably alr