My husband ended our eighteen-year marriage somewhere between dinner and bath time.
I was standing at the kitchen counter cutting apples into little half-moons for Ben, our two-year-old, because apparently apples only taste acceptable to him when they’re shaped correctly.
Daniel walked into the kitchen after work.
He loosened his tie.
Dropped his briefcase near the back door.
Then, in the same calm tone someone might use to mention the weather, he said,
“Let’s not turn this into a scene. I’m leaving. I’m with Claire now.”
For a second, I
