Seven times, I married the same man.
And seven times, for the sake of his one true love, my husband divorced me.
The first time we married, he told me, "For the rest of my life, I will love only you."
But whenever she came back to town, his tune would change. "Can't you be more understanding? Do you really want Emma to be branded a homewrecker?"
The first time we divorced, I slit my wrists in a desperate attempt to keep him. They rushed me to the hospital, but he never came. Not once.
The third time, I debased myself, applying for a job as his assistant, just for the chance to see him more often.
By the sixth time, I had learned to pack my things quietly and move out of our home without a fight.
My hysteria, my retreats, my quiet compliance—all of it earned me his punctual remarriages and his predictable betrayals.
Until this time. This time, after getting word that his precious Emma was returning, I was the one who handed him the divorce papers.
He set a date for our remarriage, just like all the other times, but he didn't know.
This time, I was leaving for good.
