Third Time's the Last Straw

Elle's toxic first love had only one birthday wish: for us to get a divorce.

The first time I refused, she aborted our three-month-old baby.

The second time I wouldn't budge, she pressed a box cutter to her wrist and asked me to choose: divorce, or widowhood.

And today was the third time.

Even the clerk at the courthouse knew me by now. When she handed over the divorce certificate, she teased me with a smile, "Remarrying again in a month, same as always?"

Elle expected me to fall apart the way I always did, to beg her to stay. She'd already started frowning, bracing herself to explain.