You clutched the love letters he had sent you over the years. He was yours. He said he was yours. You thought he was yours. Your sister had already 'affectionately' lectured you several times throughout life, telling you that “He will do what it takes to survive”. All of your walls had been knocked down by the palaces of sentences he had built for you in the paragraphs. You were scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign, for proof that he may still be yours.

He'd published every letter she'd written him, telling the world about how he'd taken her in your bed, while you were away with your son. He'd ruined your lives, just to get out of political controversy. He was an Icarus, he'd flown too close to the sun. He was obsessed with his legacy, paranoid in every paragraph. You were erasing yourself from his narrative.

That's what you told yourself as you threw the letters, one by one, into the lit fireplace in the darkness of your home. You didn't care for the fact he had walked into the living room, nor the fact that he was clenching his fists desperately.

Beginning pleadingly, he murmured, “Best of partners, and best of people..” He paused, “I'll sleep in my office.” He deserved all of the hatred you could possibly throw his way, he knew that, but it still hurt. He'd thrown your marriage away. He wouldn't be surprised if you decided to separate. If anyone else asked, he'd call it political sacrifice, but not you. Never you. You didn't need him justifying his infidelity.