"You messed up, you know that?" my wife asked me, trying to hold onto my hand.
I looked around the room, the metal table, the bars on the window, and way too many people in prison guard jumpsuits watching everyone carefully.
"You never told me this is what would happen," she says to me, looking me straight in the eyes.
I look away, thinking back over the past few months, and then shrug.
"But here we are, and I shouldn't have had to tell you," I reply without much emotion.
I caught Bronwyn in bed with my boss six months earlier, their bedroom talk devastated me, but worse was that our six-month-old daughter was asleep down the hall.
"I was doing it for us you know," she told me, something I had heard her say a number of times since that night.
"I know you want to believe that Bronwyn, but you keep forgetting to look at it from my side, can you get over yourself? Try to look at it from my point of view," I countered, again not for the first time.
"But you shouldn't have tried to stop us. It's your fault!" my wife told me arrogantly.
My wife is referring to the point that in my rage, I stormed into the bedroom to confront them but didn't take into account that my boss, Kaine, while older enough to be her father, was three times my size. I got in the first three punches. But moments later, I was laid out on the floor. In hospital, I was visited by a couple of friendly Police officers, who took my statement and, after hearing my story, suggested that I retain a lawyer.
"Was it worth it Peter?" the now scornful voice of my wife said, bringing me out of the memory.
