Open Marriage Closed Heart
In their place hung a cheap print of a giant pink rose.
My collection of rare classical vinyl records was shoved into a cardboard box.
Next to it was a tacky, rhinestone-covered Bluetooth speaker, blasting pop music.
This home, the sanctuary Damien and I built together, was being defiled. Destroyed.
"This is my house," I managed, my voice trembling with a rage so deep it barely made a sound.
"Of course, dear," she said, her eyes scanning the room with contempt. "But a home should feel alive, not like a tomb. It's time to clear out the dead weight."