“Mrs.

Whitman,” Marcus asked, “when did your husband give you the divorce petition?”

“October twelfth,” I said.

“He placed a thick manila envelope on our kitchen table, right next to the ceramic salt shaker, while I was making dinner.”

“Did he give you any warning beforehand?”

“None,” I said.

“He told me we weren’t meant to grow old together.

He spoke in cold, formal sentences because he wanted to push me away.