Divorcing Cheating -
Chapter 1
Chapter 1 Funeral
My son Aaron Walker’s last birthday wish was for us three to go to Disneyland.
But Chris Walker, my husband, never liked me or our son.
I begged him endlessly, and he finally agreed.
The night before our departure, Chris vanished. Aaron passed away with his wish unfulfilled.
After handling the funeral alone, I discovered Chris in a photo on my sister Sharon Norris‘ Instagram post. The caption read: [“I said I wanted to see the snow, and you took me thousands of miles just to find it.“]
I maintained my composure, packing my belongings without a tear or outburst.
Then Chris cried, begging me not to go.
It wasn’t surprising that Chris would drop everything for Sharon.
I was never the exception with him.
He labeled me as someone who would do anything to climb the social ladder. How could I compare to his eternal beloved?
I returned from the cemetery to the villa, our supposed marital home.
Yet, Chris rarely set foot here. It was more of a shared residence with Aaron.
Aaron’s presence was evident everywhere. I wept as I began clearing away the traces of our life together.
Every remembrance of Aaron and me had to go.
Dragging my suitcase downstairs, I ran into Chris.
He was carrying Sharon into the house.
His face was etched with concern. He brushed past me, treating me like a stranger under the same roof.
His eyes never even glanced my way.
I had grown accustomed to this. With Sharon around, I was invisible to him.
Sensing the suitcase at my feet, Chris stopped in his tracks.
His voice was devoid of emotion. “Amber Norris, another one of your dramatic stunts?”
Sharon, clinging affectionately to Chris‘ neck, looked up at me. “Amber, I twisted my ankle, and since Chris said it’s close by, he brought me here to take care of it. You don’t mind, do you?”
It was just a twisted ankle.
I watched as Chris gently settled her on the sofa and then fetched an ice pack to soothe her foot. He treated her as if she were made of glass.
Once, when a car accident left me with a broken leg, requiring a family member’s signature for surgery, I reached out
to him.
His response was cold and detached, “A broken leg isn’t life or death. Why bother me?”
Yet, he was the only family I had left.
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