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When I was eighteen, I had one reckless night with my childhood sweetheart in a cheap motel. He told me, "Liv, you're the only woman I'll ever love in this life." In the sixth year of our marriage, after he'd made it big, I caught him cheating again. Inside the bedroom, a girl's spoiled voice rang out: "You spaced out again. Were you thinking about my sister? You're not allowed to think about her right now." Lucas sounded tired. "Liv, I promised your sister I'd come back to my family. I've already given you so much behind her back. What else do you want from me?" I didn't cry or make a scene. I just turned around and walked away. That night, I took out the divorce agreement from the drawer, the one I'd made him sign before. Then I signed my own name on it, stroke by stroke. After that, I put the papers back where they belonged. If one round of forgiveness still couldn't save my love or my family, then I didn't want either anymore.