I can’t afford a rental right now.

I have nowhere to go.”

I looked at my husband — at the man who had schemed to rob me while our son lay dying, who had thrown me out on the night of the funeral, who had counted on my grief to make me too weak to fight — and I waited to feel something.

Anger, maybe.

Or the old pull to soften, to help, to fix, the pull I had felt toward him for eight years.

And I felt none of it.