The Artist's Hand

Summary

At a dinner party, my genius painter husband was peeling crab for his young assistant with his hands—hands insured for millions.

Just to coax her into eating something because she had "no appetite."

Meanwhile, I was drinking until I threw up blood, trying to secure investment for him. When I asked him to pass me some stomach medicine, he flatly refused:

"My hands are for painting. Don't you have hands of your own?"

For ten years, he hadn't even bothered to change his excuse for rejection.

That night, sobering up in the cold wind, I asked my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement.