Marcus had used my fear to write a story about me: unstable wife, dependent wife, bitter wife, woman who would eventually run out of money and crawl back.
In court, I did not defeat that story by becoming louder than him.
I let the records speak.
I let the photographs keep their dates.
I let the bank statements keep their numbers.
I let the detective stand when the time came.
And I finally let people see what the necklace had been hiding.
On the morning the divorce became final, I wore the same navy dress beneath a different coat.
Nothing covered my throat.
Nothing needed to.
