Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

1984 – 2013

Wife and beloved mother.

In God's hands, we trust.

The rain pours down around my umbrella as I stare her headstone.

Trapped.

I’m trapped in a sadness so deep, I don’t know how to escape it.

Every morning she comes to my house.

Every night, I die a little when she leaves.

I read the words carved in front of me again.

ALINA MASTERS

1984 – 2013

Wife and beloved mother.

In God's hands, we trust.

I lean down and brush the dust from her name. I rearrange the pink lilies I’ve placed in the vase. I touch her face in the small oval photo, watching as she stares back at me, unblinking.

I step back and put my hands into the pockets of my black overcoat. I come here twice a week to pay my respects to a woman who gave me my children.

My wife.

A woman who was good. A woman who deserved a better man than the one she married.

I always blamed Alina for my sadness, but Brielle has taught me that my problem isn’t Alina. My problem is me.

I don’t know how to love a woman and not cause her pain. I see it every day. The look on Bree’s face nearly breaks me.

As I stand here, I can feel the blood pumping through my veins. My body is working, keeping me alive, but my heart has completely stopped. I exhale heavily. I’ve got to stop this.

I can’t go on feeling like the world is about to end.

I frown as a realisation dawns on me.

I need to do what makes me feel better. The only thing I know that works.

Half an hour later, I arrive at Madison’s, my therapist.

I always leave here relaxed. I don’t have to talk. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to feel. I walk through the front doors on autopilot.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.” Hayley, the receptionist, smiles. “Good to see you back, sir. It’s been a while.”

“It has.”

“Would you like your normal room, sir?”

A frown creases my brow. “Yes.”

“Just go up to the penthouse and someone will be with you in a moment.”