Out on the porch, Lorraine began to cry, standing helpless beside three designer suitcases that were not going anywhere at all.

“Where are we supposed to go?” Camden said, staring at me with a naked, pathetic fear I had never once seen on him in seven years.

I looked at my husband one last time.

I didn’t gloat.

I found, a little to my surprise, that I didn’t want to.

I held his eyes for a moment, and then I stepped back, and I closed the heavy oak door of my house between us.

People have asked me since whether it felt good — that moment, the door, his face.