Our Sundays with my parents, once sacred, kept getting hijacked by “urgent networking brunches.” When I finally asked for the names of these phantom clients, he’d exhale hard.

“Roslyn, can you stop auditing my schedule?

Stop suffocating me.” One night he came in at one in the morning smelling of a perfume I didn’t own, and when he caught me waiting in the dark he went straight on the attack.

“It was a team dinner.

There are women executives, Roslyn, it’s the modern world.

Why are you being so unhinged lately?” I looked for the man I’d married somewhere behind his bloodshot eyes and asked him, plainly, if he was hiding something.