His Choice Wasn't Me
Clara had tried to talk to James the night before, but he had brushed her off with a distracted, “I’m busy, Clara. Handle it.”
He didn’t know that his son, barely twelve, was scrubbing floors, washing cars, and being broken bit by bit under the cruelty of the woman he once defended.
But tonight, James’s world was fixed on only one mystery — the woman who wore his wife’s face.
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Two days later, fate struck again, not through James, but through Martha.
It was a Saturday morning at the shopping mall. Martha was leaving the supermarket, her handbag hanging loosely on her arm, a small bag of groceries clutched to her chest.