“Yes.” And I watched the last five years rearrange themselves behind Marcus’s eyes.

Because he was remembering, I could see it, how he had spoken to me about my career during our marriage. You read contracts all day.

You’re just a lawyer.

No one gets rich checking paperwork. He had said these things across our kitchen table, dismissively, for years, and I had absorbed them, and half-believed them, in the way you come to half-believe anything the person closest to you repeats often enough.

What he did not know, what he was only now beginning to grasp, was what had happened to that just-a-lawyer after he threw her away.