I BURNED HALF MY FACE SAVING MY HUSBAND—FOUR MONTHS LATER, HE LEFT ME FOR THE WOMAN WHO KNEW HOW THE FIRE REALLY STARTED

PART 1 — THE SUITCASE

“If you can’t even look at my face,n why do you keep calling me your wife?”

My voice shook.

Derek Vaughn stood across from me in our apartment in Brookhaven, Georgia, holding a charcoal-gray suitcase.

I had been home for only four days after my third reconstructive surgery.

Seven hours on an operating table.

Skin grafts.

Nerve repair.

More stitches than I wanted to count.

The left side of my face was wrapped from my temple to my jaw.

Bandages covered my neck and left arm.

Every movement hurt.

Still, that afternoon, I had made Derek’s favorite dinner.

Chicken with rosemary.