I imagined her sitting at an empty table in a model home kitchen, her business cards beside her in an untouched stack, waiting for someone to show up. I thought about the other real estate agents at the firm with perfect English, who continued to secure clients despite the recession. I thought of the bills that arrived at her one-bedroom apartment, now solely her responsibility. She wasn’t supposed to be paying bills alone. Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way for Laila Abu Sa’ab, but she had chosen the wrong marriage and the wrong life. And though she resented me because of it—I was,
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