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In the eighth year of my marriage to Edward Grant, he decided to "sponsor" a female student. She was eighteen, malnourished, and came from a broken home—so much like the girl I used to be years ago. He took her to Winterlake Springs to see the snow and posted a picture on Instagram of a snowflake melting in both their palms. One night, because she said she was craving tiramisu, he drove across the city just to buy her some. When I questioned him, he told me not to make a fuss. He admitted he was in love with someone else, but reminded me that his wife would always be me. What he didn't know was that I no longer had the strength to argue. After all, I had already started forgetting who he was.