She was striking, with sleek hair and an aura of arrogance. Her hand rested possessively on Stan’s arm as if she belonged there. Meanwhile, Stan looked at her with a warmth I hadn’t seen in months. It felt like a knife twisting in my chest.
“Well, darling,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension as she gave me a once-over, “you weren’t exaggerating. She really has let herself go.”
I couldn’t breathe. Her words cut me deeply, and when I managed to confront Stan, his response was even more gut-wrenching. “Lauren,” he said coldly, “this is Miranda. I want a divorce.”
It was surreal. I stammered, asking what would happen to us, to our children. His response? “You’ll manage.” He then informed me that Miranda would be staying over and suggested I sleep on the couch or leave.
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