Endless

Every year, my husband visits his first love’s grave.

I have always been very understanding.

That is, until three years later, when his first love returned to the country-alive.

She clung to him, acting as coy as a kitten. “Don’t be mad anymore,” she cooed. “I still love you.”

I remained understanding.

Seeing how conflicted my husband looked, I took the initiative. “Let’s get a divorce.”

Instead, he pointed at the clay sculpture on my workbench, which bore a seventy-percent resemblance to him. “Let me stay and keep you company in his place, okay?”