Robert Smith lost his memory. He forgot every single thing about me. His mind is stuck in the year when he loved his ex-wife more than anything. No matter how many times everyone around him tried to talk sense into him, he was dead set on the idea that I was the homewrecker who stole him away from her. The doctor said there was a chance his memory could come back, and I clung to that tiny sliver of hope for dear life, refusing to let go. Three long years dragged by, and in that time, we got divorced and remarried, over and over. We became the biggest laughingstock of the entire Washington, D.C. social elite.  People even started placing bets. They bet on when I’d finally walk away, and on when Robert Smith would finally remember who I was. Then the news of our eighth divorce blew up and hit the number one spot on the hot search rankings. Reporters came storming into my office at the law firm, bulky cameras propped on their shoulders. They jammed microphones right up in my face, every question dripping with biting provocation. "Lawyer Chastin, you’re a divorce lawyer yourself, and you’ve been divorced eight times already. How do you feel about that?" The firm’s sign was smashed to bits, and the custom honorary banner I’d earned was dragged to the floor and trampled underfoot. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, my boss fired me on the spot, claiming I’d ruined the reputation of our entire industry. "Jane Chastin, let me give you a piece of advice. Have some decency. Stop hounding President Smith already." I squeezed my trembling hand, and suddenly, a bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. They weren’t wrong. This time… I really do need to let go.