“I need you to pack your clothes and leave,” I said.

Daniel opened the folder, and his face drained of every drop of color.

“Divorce?” “Yes.” “Over a dinner?” And there it was again, the same willful smallness, the same refusal to see.

“No, Daniel,” I said.

“Not over a dinner.

Over four years of you mistaking being a husband for freeloading off me while letting your family treat me like a human ATM.

The dinner wasn’t the reason.