Something cracked open in my chest, and the cold wind howled straight through.
Three years of marriage. Three years in that safehouse on the edge of nothing, choking down whatever I could put together from what was left in the pantry.
Hands that once held embroidery needles split open at the knuckles from hauling firewood.
When the kindling was too damp to catch, I got on my hands and knees and blew into the stove until tears streamed down my face.
I never once complained.
And in the end, because Carmela whispered one word of grievance, he blamed me.
I ran after their car.
I just wanted to ask what I had done wrong.
I lost my footing at the cliff's edge. Two lives gone in an instant: mine, and my unborn child's.