The terminal at O’Hare International Airport was a cacophony of hurried goodbyes and eager hellos, a symphony of transit that usually signaled adventure. For me, it was the stage for a meticulously rehearsed tragedy.
I stood near the security checkpoint, clutching my husband’s hand as if it were a lifeline I was terrified to let go of. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, blurring the sterile fluorescent lights into starry halos.
“Mark,” I choked out, my voice trembling with a sorrow that was only half-feigned. “Do you really have to be gone for two whole years?”
Mark Evans, the man I had devoted the last five years of my life to, reached out and gently wiped a tear from my cheek. His expression was a masterclass in reluctant duty. “Hannah, honey, you know how crucial this project is for my career. The Toronto expansion is the company’s biggest move in a decade. Two years will fly by, I promise.”
He pulled me into an embrace, his chin resting on the top of my head. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne—a scent I now associated with betrayal.
