They served me the divorce papers three days after my final failed treatment.
I have thought a great deal about that timing, in the years since.
It was not cruelty for its own sake — Weston never wasted cruelty; he spent it like a budget.
It was precision.
He waited until I was at the absolute floor of myself, hollowed out by a fourth year of grief, convinced past all argument that I was the broken thing in our marriage.
A woman in that condition does not fight.
A woman in that condition signs.
And so the machine started.
Weston told our friends, carefully, sorrowfully, that I had become bitter.
Unstable.