BETRAYAL . CHAPTER 3 . PURGATORY
- Kate Larsen
- Jan 13
- 3 min read
Updated: Jan 28
CHAPTER THREE
Purgatory
Purgatory
A time of punishment meant to purge imperfections — as silver is tempered in a fire.
My grief was like a river. When I dammed it up in one spot, it gushed out another. I tried everything to convince myself that my heart wasn’t broken.
I bargained with my husband — I wrote out a contract for him to sign with details designed to fix everything. I elicited promises from him and asked him to sign in blood.
People recover from this, people get stronger. That will be us. We love each other.
She pursued him. It was ego. But I still tormented myself daily with graphic images of their lovemaking, their lies and their intimate secrets. Moments and memories circled like vultures. I cried only in the car on the way to work, only at night in the bathroom, only in my sleep.
I met with her one cloudy afternoon by the lake.
Because I had a painful appetite for details. Because I wanted to be a player in this drama.
She was nervous and couldn’t look me in the eye.
I wanted to know dates, places and, most importantly, was she in love with him?
“Yes,” she said.
I asked if she thought he was in love with her. “I think so,” she said. (I wonder why she thought that?)
I was polite, civilized.
I was trying to make her like me. Maybe then she would realize what a terrible thing she had done.
We went to Europe.
It was his grand idea to escape the grand tragedy. So we took all the kids and rented a car and drove our way through Holland and France and Italy. But it turns out that a broken heart doesn’t stay at home — it can fly across the Atlantic Ocean.
I kept my grief hidden from the children behind the sunglasses I bought in Naples. But he saw it. And it made him angry and frustrated.
Why couldn’t I forgive him?
And I couldn’t. He didn’t keep me safe. He didn’t keep the children safe. He was untrustworthy.
And then my anger swooped in like a knight in shining armour.
I welcomed it because it was so alive and strong and passionate. I let it seep out in the way I looked at him, the way I said hello and goodbye, the way I asked, “What do you want for dinner?”
I resented him because he slept well at night, because he laughed and still did all the things he liked to do. I saw no remorse. Only the occasional flinch of guilt.
We weren’t stronger. I watched him all the time.
I was jumpy, fearful, insecure, angry. This false life I was living on the outside floated over an inner sea of depression. He said I was always changing my mind; that he didn’t understand me. He was blaming me for not forgiving him; for not being better.
And then one morning after two years of this purgatory, I found the key that had fallen out of his pocket.
One night that week I drove in the dark to her house when she was at work, and I tried the key. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I slid the key into the keyhole and turned the knob. I still don’t know why it worked. I think the door might have already been unlocked. It doesn’t really matter.
There is something about keys. They unlock more than doors.
I went home and asked him, “Why does this key open her door?”
He said I was crazy and gave me a logical explanation. And that’s when I knew I would never be able to trust him.
He didn’t love me. He just didn’t want to knock the castle down.
He chose another woman. He lied over and over again. There was no fixing this.
That’s when I walked my broken heart through the open door.
...to be continued...
By Kate Larsen . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2011 . Volume 1 . Issue 3
