And in hiding it I had let him write a story in which he rose and I stayed small, in which he became more and I became less, until he could stand in our bedroom and speak of me as a burden he had generously carried too long.

The gap he felt so superior across did not exist.

It was a stage set I had built for him, out of love, or out of what I had mistaken for love — and he had walked its painted floors so long he had forgotten they were paint.

He thought he was above me.

He was standing on a set I had constructed.

And that night, without his knowing it yet, I had finally decided to strike it.