He was looking at me like a man watching the floor of his universe disappear beneath his feet.

“Clara, please,” he begged, a tear finally escaping. “We can talk about this. We can go to therapy. I’ll change. I promise.”

I looked at him and felt only a hollow exhaustion. I remembered every Sunday dinner where he sat silent while his mother flayed me. Every night he told me I was too sensitive.

The burning sting of his hand on my face.

I reached into my clutch, pulled out the heavy diamond wedding ring, and placed it in the exact center of the entryway console. The metal made a sharp, final clink against the glass.

“We just did.”