Too Late to Marry in Haste

It was the eighth year since my husband, Vincent, had come back to me. His mistress, unable to wait any longer, had finally married someone else. Vincent drank himself into a bleeding ulcer at a bar and held my hand all night, whispering, “I’m sorry, Layla. I’m so sorry.” Layla was the young woman he’d kept on the side. I had waited her out, from her fresh-faced youth until the first lines appeared around her eyes. Now, her patience had run out. She was getting married tomorrow, and she had deliberately chosen my wedding anniversary to do it. A final, spiteful jab to show me she hadn't truly lost this war. But I had been waiting for this day for a long time, too. I sent the video of her and Vincent to her new in-laws. Then, I asked Vincent for a divorce.