Toby was propped on my shoulder with his little fist wound into my collar, and the burner under the oatmeal was turned down to two.

Brandon walked into the kitchen at four thirty in the morning dressed in his charcoal suit.

He hadn’t put that suit on since his cousin’s wedding back in June.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, didn’t take a sip, and set it down on the island between the two of us.

“I want a divorce,” he said.

“A quiet one, and before Thanksgiving.”

I reached past him and switched off the burner.

The knob clicked, and the blue ring of flame under the pot disappeared.

He kept his eyes on my hand the entire time.

“That’s your answer?”

“Would you like a different one?”

“Most women would want to know why.”

With my free hand I twisted my wedding ring around my thumb and let the silence settle on the counter between us.

“This has nothing to do with my mother,” he said.

“I never said it was.”

He finally drank the coffee then and grimaced at how long it had been sitting there.

“I have an eight o’clock meeting with Dale Rennick.

My mother arranged it.”