Six months after the trial, I moved out of my apartment and bought a small house on the east side of town. It had a porch and a garden and a kitchen that got morning sun. It was the kind of house I had always imagined buying, back when I thought I was going to spend my life with Calvin.
I had stopped thinking about that version of my life. The one with the white picket fence and the golden retriever and the man who came home every night. That life was a fantasy. A story I had told myself to keep from facing the truth.
The truth was that Calvin had never loved me. He had used me. He had used me for affection, for comfort, for a place to hide from his family's expectations. He had told me what I wanted to hear and then he had moved on to the next person who could give him something he need
