What the Light Forgets
At a dinner party, my genius painter of a husband, Henry Shepherd, used his hands, hands insured for millions, to shell crabs for his young assistant, Tamara Lee.
This was all to coax her into eating a few bites when she claimed she had no appetite.
Meanwhile, I drank myself into a bloody mess, trying to secure investments for him.
When I asked him to hand me some antacids, he refused without even looking up.
“These hands are for painting. Use your own.”
For ten years, he couldn’t even be bothered to change the way he treated me.
That night, as I sobered up in the cold wind, I asked my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement.
"Henry, in this vast, chaotic world, our paths end here," I said inwardly