I thought about the children I had raised, largely alone, while he worked late or traveled or networked.

I thought about my mother’s gold bracelet, the only truly valuable thing she left me, which I had sold, quietly, without telling anyone, to cover the rent on Luca’s first office when the firm was young and struggling.

I thought about the papers he had put in front of me over the years, telling me they were tax forms, which I had signed without reading because I trusted him.

Eleven years of making myself smaller and smaller, quieter and quieter, more and more useful and less and less seen, all so that this man could stand on a porch in a navy suit and let a woman in my earrings call me a leech.