wanted a divorce.
If I was honest, our marriage had been dying for years.
What hurt was the cruelty.
The timing.
The need to embarrass me in front of everyone who mattered.
I grabbed my purse and headed toward the exit.
Then I heard Mr. Whitaker’s voice.
“Actually, Roy, I was going to save this for later.”
I stopped.
The entire room stopped.
Mr. Whitaker stood near the podium, holding the microphone loosely in one hand.
His expression remained calm.
Professional.
But I had worked with him for twenty years.
