The disagreement hung there, all those years, between them with the solidity of an invisible brick wall. He went to war for a year, and when he came back, it was still there, that damned wall. Spent a year drifting here and there across the ocean. Still there. Missionary work in a country where the very faces of the children made him cry. A year spent roughing it deep in the Canadian forest. Even a year with her, trying for a way to be found.
Her last punishment happened where it had all begun. As she drifted away on her blow-up raft, he watched from the beach; watched until the tiny speck of her was gone. He hadn’t tried to save her because she hadn’t wanted to be saved. All her life, she’d been planning the coup de gras, spear from her heart to his. This time, she’d let the pain destroy her. Hating him, flowers, trees, cars. Happiness.
With a deep sigh, he picked up his towel and walked away, back towards their house. Their home.