Through gritted teeth, Damaris hissed, “Nor am I. I’m sick of hearing that. I don’t need a husband…”
“…and as you prefer to believe her, Harry we’re through.”
Damaris smiled at her glass of wine. That’d been 30 years ago. The kids had done well. Daughter a lawyer, son, a pilot. Damaris herself, Head of IT.
Somehow, he’d found her. Harry touched her hand. “Well?”
She sighed. “Sorry no. Didn’t want to marry anyone then. Don’t want to marry anyone now.”