June 7, 1944
I think I hate my husband.
What a terrible thing for me to write. To even think.
Yet, staring at the words now, I cannot find even a morsel of regret.
How could he do this to Sera and me? How could he build a beautiful life with me, create an even more beautiful child, and then destroy us so callously?
I’m heartbroken.
Not only for myself, but for our daughter, too. He had made a promise to take her out for ice cream after dinner to celebrate her ending the school year at the top of her class. He never showed, and Sera broke into tears, concerned that something terrible had happened to her father.
And that ... that made me so angry. Our sweet daughter didn’t think for one second that her father had forgotten about her. The only thing that made sense in her head was that he had gotten in some sort of accident.
I knew the truth, but how could I tell her? How could I wittingly break her heart?
So I lied. I assured her that her father was okay and that he must have gotten held up late by an important client. She understands her daddy works hard, and while disappointed, I know that she will forgive him.
But I won’t.
I think I hate my husband.