Not the meetings at the office.

Not the calls.

Not the emails, not the data rooms, not the four different secure systems we spent a hundred and forty thousand dollars a year on.

The ones where a man in a coat walked past a child on the stairs.

Part Ten: The Conference Room

My marriage ended on a Friday afternoon eleven days later, in a conference room on the fourth floor of a building in Stamford, with four lawyers present and a jug of water nobody touched.

It ended in about four seconds and it was not over the death.