One Hundred Reasons To Walk Away

For three years, I documented my husband Ashton's neglect in a secret ledger I called "The Song of a Hundred Reasons." Each forgotten anniversary and dismissive glance was a point deducted from a hundred. When the points hit zero, I would walk away.

The final reason came not as a quiet slight, but as a deafening crash.

When a massive chandelier fell towards us in a restaurant, Ashton didn't hesitate. He shoved his "best friend" Bailey to safety, shielding her with his body while I was left to be crushed.

I woke up in the hospital with broken ribs and a severe concussion. He never visited.

Instead, he spent a fortune on a private med-jet to fly Bailey to a luxury retreat for her "panic attack." Her well-being was paramount; mine was an afterthought.

That was the final reason. I signed the divorce papers from my hospital bed and never looked back.

Two years later, holding a Grammy for my hit album "Song of a Hundred Reasons," he showed up, begging for a second chance.