That’s not who she was. Not anymore. She watched her reflection smooth down her hair. Straighten her blouse’s collar. Wipe the corners of her eyes and mouth. Such a hateful letter. She’d read it three times, trying to recognize the hand writing. But the words blurred as the tears welled, and she thought of all she had, and everything she could lose.

“Spite,” her reflection said, lips curling up, and nose crinkling.

No. She’d decided.

The keys were in her husband’s night stand. The lockbox in the closet. The gun, heavier than she expected, but its weight a sudden comfort.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.

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