The Last Mrs. Parrish

by Liv Constantine

That’s what wealth does for you, she thought. It gives you the means and the power to remain concealed from the world if you choose to—or if you need to.

She had graduated from the dreary home of her youth to this monklike existence.

“Marriage is hard work. If you love someone, you don’t let anything destroy it.”

Don’t be someone’s trash can.

I didn’t use to be afraid of my husband. I thought I loved him, back when he was kind—or pretended to be. Before I knew what a monster looks like up close.

Everything had begun with such promise. And then, like a windshield chipped by a tiny pebble, the chip turned into deep cracks that spread until there was nothing left to repair.

I was learning that emotional intimidation could be just as unsettling as physical.

“Abused? I’ve never laid a hand on you.” “There are other kinds of abuse,”

Then the gun would make an appearance again, and I always wondered if that would be the night he’d kill me. The next day a gift would arrive. A piece of jewelry, a designer purse, some expensive perfume. And every time I had to wear any of it, I’d be reminded of what I’d endured to receive it.

Looking back, I suppose I should have seen the signs. But I was eager for a friend, a true friend. No, that’s not quite right. I was desperate for a sister—for my sister, which was of course, impossible.

She relished the freedom to make her own choices without fear of reprisal. It was like letting out a sigh of relief that had been pent up for years.