Chapter 3 - The Cold Breakfast
Ten days earlier, the morning sun had broken over the salt marshes of Savannah, casting long, peaceful shadows across our breakfast nook.
I had spent forty minutes frying country ham, scrambling farm eggs, and rolling fresh buttermilk biscuits from scratch, just as I had every morning for four decades.
Quinton had walked into the dining room wearing his tailored charcoal blazer, his silver hair perfectly styled, smelling of expensive French cologne I had never bought for him.
He hadn't touched the eggs.
He hadn't poured the coffee.
He had simply pulled a manila folder from his leather briefcase and tossed it across the lace tablecloth, knocking over the bone-china butter dish.
"Rosalie, I want a divorce," Quinton said, checking his gold Rolex without looking at me. "The house and accounts are in my name."
I had frozen with the coffee pot in my hand, believing for five terrifying seconds that my ears were playing tricks on an aging mind.
"Quinton? What are you saying?"
"Don't make a scene, Rosalie. You're sixty-three years old. Let's handle this with dignity."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with the calm detachment of a magistrate handing down a minor civil fine.
"I have met someone who matches my ambition," he said smoothly. "Valentina understands the modern corporate landscape. She brings a fresh energy to the firm that you simply cannot provide."
My throat had closed until I could barely draw breath. "Valentina? The girl who started in regional marketing six months ago? Quinton, she is thirty-six. She is three years younger than our son Forest!"
"Age is an arbitrary metric," Quinton snapped, his jaw tightening with irritation. "The point is that our marriage has been an empty arrangement for twenty years. You belong in the garden, Rosalie. I belong in the boardroom."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small electronic voucher slip, and slid it toward my plate.
"I have instructed our corporate payroll department to issue you a severance gift of twelve hundred dollars," Quinton said. "The funds will clear into a temporary prepaid debit card by the end of next week once you surrender the keys to the property."
May you like
"Twelve hundred dollars?" I whispered, my voice breaking into jagged pieces. "Thirty-eight years, Quinton. I raised our boy. I kept your home. I cooked every meal you ever ate."
"And you lived in comfort while doing it," he replied coldly. "You have until noon tomorrow to remove your clothing from the guest room. The movers are bringing Valentina's furniture at three."
