My attention was fixed on the first line of the letter.
My dearest Elena, by now they have probably convinced themselves that they know why you married me.
My hands began to tremble.
The truth was, I had once believed I knew the answer too.
I thought I had married Russell Bennett for security.
I had been thirty-two years old, exhausted, frightened, and one missed paycheck away from losing the little apartment I called home.
The place had one bedroom, a heater that worked only when it felt like it, and a window that allowed rainwater to gather along the sill. The pipes complained throughout the night, and the kitchen smelled permanently of instant noodles and burnt coffee.
Every evening after work, I would sit on the edge of my bed and divide my tips into careful piles.
Rent.
