When Wendy had met Oliver he was somewhat handsome and seemed valuable. She had thought he was an American.
Living with him, Wendy had learned he had migrated as a child from Jamaica.
She had put up with his violence, his stubbornness, his selfishness, attributing it to a spoiled brat upbringing. After all, if he were rich he would be used to getting his own way.
Arriving in America, just seeing the ramshackle old house where his family lived, seeing how they lived, she realised Oliver was what you scrap off a shoe. Her house on her island was far more luxurious than this rat hole.
Now she looked at Oliver.
When she married him, she was nineteen and he was twenty four.
As the years had passed he put on weight, wore his hair too short for what was now, at thirty, a jowly face. He had an ugly twist to his mouth, and his voice was cold like a grave.
His behaviour was not that the spoiled brat of a bottom feeding ghetto boy who didn’t know better.
Oliver was the son of a cleaner, the kind of person she never would have looked at.
She had met and married a fraud. An evil, ugly man, who pretended to be something he was not and never would be.
At least he really was an American citizen. And once she got her citizenship, she’d flush him down the toilet.