Closing my eyes, I forced out the truth.
“I’m divorcing Aaron.”
She was quiet for perhaps three seconds before asking “Have you packed your things?”
Of every response I’d rehearsed, that wasn’t one. My throat tightened.
“No.”
“Your father and I can come.”
She never questioned my certainty, lectured me about difficult marriages, or suggested I sleep on it, apologize for Slack, or safeguard Aaron’s reputation, his company, or the Prescott name. She accepted what I said. Leaning against the car, I almost fell apart at the simplicity of being
