The man stared out his office window at the Baltimore Harbor, a now-familiar ache in his chest. Below, the wreckage of the Francis Scott Key Bridge cast a long shadow, a stark reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded just the day before. His phone, a messy constellation of coffee mugs, donut crumbs, and a toddler’s picture on the screen, buzzed on the desk. It wasn’t his wife – he knew that ring tone. With a sigh, he answered.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he said, his voice practiced with a charm that felt increasingly hollow.
The rumors about him – the whispers of violence, the quick turnaround to another marriage – they swirled in his head like the debris in the harbor below. This new wife, with her sweet child pictured on his phone, deserved better. He’d built a life on sand, a series of quick marriages and new beginnings that never quite took hold.
The news report crackled on the radio, detailing the bridge collapse, the missing workers. He pictured them, men just trying to make a living, their lives cut short by a freak accident. A pang of guilt, unexpected and sharp, hit him. Was this the kind of man he wanted to be? Trading in wives like used cars, leaving a trail of wreckage in his wake?
He ended the call with a flimsy promise to meet his “beautiful” soon, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Looking back out the window, at the shattered bridge and the choppy harbor, he knew things had to change. He didn’t know what that future looked like, but he knew this – this cycle of destruction had to end.
Six workers presumed dead after crippled cargo ship knocks down Baltimore bridge
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