I just went home and told Nadine to pack her bags. “I didn’t do this,” she told me, standing in our kitchen, tears in her eyes.
“One day you’ll find out the truth, and I hope you can live with what you did.”
I didn’t listen. She left quiet. No fight. No lawyer. Gone within two months like she’d never been in that house at all.
A year passed. I got engaged again. Then, on a dusty road out past the county line, my fiancée screamed for me to pull over — and there was Nadine, standing in the heat with a bag of crushed cans and two small babies strapped against her chest.
