Revenge Is Sweet, Love Is Sweeter

My husband, Emit Arnold, only touches me when he's too drunk to remember he hates my guts. For three years, he's blamed me for the death of his true love, Everleigh.

Yesterday, he brought a woman home who had plastic surgery to look exactly like her.

Then my own twin children stood before me and told me to get out.

"Daddy brought our new mommy home," they said. "You have to leave now."

The woman, my adoptive sister Gigi, then deliberately cut her own leg with a knife and blamed me for it.

When Emit saw her bleeding, he didn't hesitate. He shoved me to the floor.

Later, his sister Isadora slapped me, her eyes burning with hate. "I'm the one who told everyone you killed Everleigh," she hissed. "And I'll keep telling them."

My children, my husband, my in-laws—they all chose the woman wearing a dead person's face over me. The love I had held onto for so long was finally gone.

That night, he cornered me in my room, ripped the dress from my body, and called me filthy.

He thought I would break.

Instead, I walked back into the living room, picked up the divorce papers I had already prepared, and threw them right in his face.