But he had loaded the weapon himself.

There is a particular kind of person, and Trevor was one, who wants the benefits of a thing without the reality of it, and who manages this trick by forgetting, sincerely and conveniently, the terms he agreed to.

He had wanted my wealth, four years earlier, badly enough to sign anything, and he had signed, and then — this is the part that fascinates me, looking back — he had genuinely forgotten.

He did not spend our marriage secretly resenting the prenup, plotting around it, waiting for a chance to overturn it.

He simply erased it from his mind, because it was inconvenient to remember that the house was not his, that the money was not his, that his entire comfortable life rested on my continued goodwill rather than on any right of his own.

It was more pleasant to believe he was a co-owner than a guest, and so he believed it, and let his mother believe it, and built his family’s whole sense of entitlement on a foundation he knew, somewhere he refused to look, did not exist.