years, didn' t look at me in the rearview mirror. I was just part of the scenery, a fixture in the life of h
wned it, her shoes kicked off on the expensive rug. Th
Oh, my g
culpture Mark had given me on our first anniversary. It was a swirling, interlocking form, mea
yes wide with feigned distress. "Sarah, I am so, so sorry. I
"It' s okay, Em. Don' t worry about it. It' s just a thing."
reassurances. He didn' t even look at the s
is very room. "This is us, Sarah," he had said, his voice soft with a love I
mind now, a bitter, ho
f the sculpture. He picked it up, and with a deliberate, violent motion, he smashed it on the floor. The
an object; he was pulverizing our past, grinding every g
ower and appearances. I was a possession, and the sculpture was a symbol of that possession. No
and a small broom. I walked back into the living room and knelt, beginning to sweep up the shards.
s of a broken sculpture. A tangible loss. But the other loss, the one no one could see, was a wound that would never
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