September 22, 1944

“We’re going out to celebrate tonight with Frank,” John announces as he comes down the steps. I’m in the living room opening up Frankenstein, prepared to read it again for the millionth time.

It’s been four days since Ronaldo and I first slept together, and he’s visited me every morning since. It’s Friday night now, and with Sera and John home on the weekends, I’m unable to see him until Monday rolls around again. He promised he’d visit then, and it’s all I can think about.

This past week has been full of more pleasure than I’ve experienced in my entire thirty-five years. It’s safe to say I’m addicted to the man, and he has not only invaded my dreams but my every waking hour.

I frown, setting Frankenstein down on the stool.

“Celebrate? Celebrate what?”

A wide grin stretches across John’s face, and he splays out his hands on either side of him as if presenting a prize. “We’re caught up on all the bills!”

I blink, thunderstruck by his declaration. He keeps his position for several moments until he realizes I’m speechless. Excitement glimmering in his eyes, he rushes over to me, carelessly grabbing my book and setting it on the floor so he can take its spot on the stool before me.

He grabs my hands, leaning close as he says, “I told you I was going to fix my mistakes, and that’s precisely what I’ve done, Genevieve. I know I was awful to you these past few months, but things are looking up now. Things are going to be better. I’m going to be better.”

My mind races trying to figure out how he could’ve possibly pulled this off. Frank told me how much John owed from his gambling, and I saw how many bills piled up, only deepening our debt. Unless he won a large sum of money, it’s impossible for him to have accomplished such a feat.

“Did you win big? From gambling?”

He shrugs coquettishly, deliberately giving me a cryptic answer, which only raises my concern rather than soothes it.

Even so, there’s so much eagerness in his gaze, and I don’t have it in me to snuff it. Regardless of my growing resentment toward him, I do still care for him. And at this moment, he looks more like the man I fell in love with than he has in a long while.

“That’s . . . That’s amazing, John,” I finally choke out, forcing a relieved smile onto my face.

And I am relieved. Relieved that Sera will continue to have a roof over her head, food in her belly, and a warm bed to sleep in at night. But I’m equally concerned. I have an unsettling feeling that while John may not owe money any longer, he owes something far greater than that.

His life.

John jumps up, tugging me to my feet and dragging me to the center of the living room. He laughs as he raises my arm in the air, prompting me to twirl around on his finger.

When I spin back toward him, he pulls me into his embrace, holding tightly on to my hand while his arm bands around my waist. There, we sway while he hums the tune to his favorite song, “All the Things You Are” by Tommy Dorsey.

I rest my forehead against his chest, hiding the tears welling in my eyes. The faint smell of whiskey clings to his breath and clothes, and my heart breaks a little more.

If things were normal, I’d place a red kiss on his lips, and just this once, he wouldn’t gripe about the stain I left behind. I’d even sing the lyrics to this song while he hummed. He always said I had a beautiful voice, but if I were to use it right now, it’d crack into pieces.

I vowed I would love him for the rest of my days, and I took those vows seriously. If I were a forgiving woman, I wouldn’t let a few terrible months be the end of an otherwise happy marriage. I wouldn’t have betrayed my promise to be faithful.

Yet I struggle to regret my choices.

God, how I wish that wasn’t the case. Part of me feels obligated to give John another chance. To forget Ronaldo and invest everything I have into fixing this marriage.

Be a perfect little wife, he had said.

That’s what’s expected of me.

But I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me.

Every human on this earth is born pure, and all it takes is one day, one decision to change that forever. And sometimes, the damage can last a lifetime.

John’s transgressions shouldn’t be forgotten, even if they were a first.

He gambled away everything we had and put our daughter at risk of becoming homeless.

He invaded my body.

He hit me.

And even now, he continues to drown himself in alcohol. Some of those transgressions have already become habits.

So, while I mourn the death of our marriage, I can’t find it in me to forgive him. Nor can I find it in me to fall back in love with him again.

To put it simply, John Parsons doesn’t deserve my love. Not anymore.

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