“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

Reality hit him with brutal force. The director position he had just celebrated was gone. The inheritance he dreamed of had vanished. The mistress he boasted about turned out to be a latent enemy. And the wife he had trampled on now had full control of his destiny. Mark’s legs gave out. He fell to his knees right in front of me. The man who had yelled at and insulted me two hours ago. The man who had ordered me to serve his guests like a servant now knelt at my feet like a miserable beggar. Tears streamed down Mark’s face. Snot ran from his nose, mixing with the tears, making his face look extremely disgusting.

He began to sob and beg for forgiveness. He grabbed the hem of my dress, trying to kiss my feet. He said he had lost his mind, that the stress of work was so great he had sought an escape. He said he could swear to God he still loved me. He begged me to remember the beautiful memories of our courtship, the sweet beginnings of our marriage. He begged me to forgive him and withdraw Mr. Harrison’s complaint for the sake of our love, for our sacred marriage vows. He even promised to change, to be a good husband, to pray a lot, to do anything if I gave him a second chance.

Hearing those cheap flatteries and stale promises, I felt nauseous. Perhaps the old me, the foolish woman who always believed he could change, would have softened at the sight of his tears. But my mother’s death and today’s events had killed that old Sarah. I looked at Mark with an empty, emotionless gaze. I remembered Mark’s reaction when I returned from the funeral and was crying. That sentence echoed clearly in my ears. What good is crying going to do? Your mother isn’t going to come back to life. That sentence was now a boomerang coming back to hit him. I took a step back, freeing my dress from his dirty hand.