It took a moment to sink in.
“You married him… for paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“You should’ve told me.”
Her voice trembled. “If I had, you would’ve tried to fix it yourself—and made it worse.”
I wanted to argue.
But part of me knew she wasn’t wrong.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” she whispered. “I left because I love you enough to protect you.”
That hurt more than anything.
I walked out.
Outside, the air felt sharp and cold. I stood there, trying to breathe, trying to understand.
A moment later, I heard her footsteps.
She stopped beside me.
“Why do it like this?” I asked.
“Because people question paperwork,” she said softly. “They don’t question a marriage. It had to look real.”
“It looked miserable.”
“It was.”
We sat on the steps in silence.
After a while, I asked, “How long have you been dealing with this?”
“Since the day I found out.”
“Alone?”
She gave a faint, tired smile. “Mostly.”
I looked down at the folder she handed me—pages of contracts, legal language, my name everywhere.
“You should’ve trusted me,” I said quietly.
“And you should’ve asked questions,” she replied.
We both fell silent again.
Finally, I asked, “What happens now?”
