If it is, he’s bound to know what I’m talking about. “She was my wife, dammit. The Lord says-”
“Stop right there.”That’s his answer? Religious bullshit?
“She’s the one who left us.” His familiar bitterness doesn’t have the same effect on me as it used to.
“Did. You. Rape. My. Mother?” I bite out the words, hating how they sound as they leave my lips.
“We were married.”
“For the love of Christ.” I hang up, walk to a large stone and squat on my heels until the bile in the back of my throat settles down.
All this time? How could I not have known? My reality tilts on its axis. Sure, he threw out all her pictures but not because she left him. She reminded him of a crime so vile, he couldn’t face it. Then, he went and got religion. All the pieces fall into place.
I walk into the desert, make sure I’m alone, and weep.
