The situation right now was.. difficult, to say the least.

Your husband, Alexander Hamilton, had an affair, and wrote it down in a pamphlet for the entirety of America to see.

You were away with your sister, Angelica, and your son, Philip, whilst Alexander had countless meetings with a woman named Maria before paying an absurd amount of hush money to her husband, just to reveal it anyway and ruin your life.

The pity was what got you the most. Whenever somebody saw you in public, they immediately put on that face that showed they didn’t really give a shit about you but had to comfort you, and rubbed your back as you walked by. You didn’t need pity, you needed help. Something to cope.

So now, you’re sat in your room with a bucket of burning letters from Alexander when he- well, you thought he was yours.

You watched it all burn.