“She was only trying to help me when I panicked.”

“She was keeping you a child,” I said.

“And I need a husband.”

The wall clock above the stove ticked five times before Ethan spoke again.

“What if I cannot do all of it?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the hum of the refrigerator.

“Then we file for divorce on Monday,” I said.

The flat word sat between us on the kitchen table like a heavy stone.

Ethan slowly dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms flat against his eyes.