He didn’t answer, because we both knew it. Too many times to count. I had stopped counting around the fourth year, because tracking every incident made staying with him far too painful.

During those first quiet, disorienting weeks, I leaned on Hian more than I expected. She had built our firm beside me, helping turn it from a rented office with two battered desks into a company of eleven people handling projects across several states.

The Sunday after the anniversary dinner, she arrived at my parents’ home carrying takeout and asking no questions. We sat on the porch while the children slept upstairs.

“I’ve watched you carry that family for a decade,” she said. “Whatever you decide now, the firm carries you.”

It was a simple sentence. It completely undid me. For years, people had praised my strength only when they needed me to keep carrying their burdens. Hian was the first person in a long time to remind me that I was allowed to be carried too.

I filed for divorce eleven days after the anniversary dinner. My attorney was Barnaby Coyle, a sharp, composed man Dad had trusted through decades of business dealings.