The wall clock above the stove ticked five times before Ethan spoke again.

“What if I can’t do all of it?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.

“Then we file for divorce on Monday,” I said.

The flat word sat between us on the kitchen table like a heavy stone.

Ethan slowly lowered his head into his hands, pressing his palms flat against his eyes.

A harsh, jagged breath rattled deep in his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Rachel,” he whispered into his fingers.