I remembered how many times I had sat at our kitchen table, exhausted after four hours at my mother Martha’s house, holding her trembling hands while she tried to button her sweater.

I remembered holding Ethan’s face in my hands, thanking him for being such a selfless, steady partner while I juggled my career and my mother’s early-onset Parkinson’s care.

I had apologized to him on three separate occasions for not doing enough around the house, feeling a sharp sting of personal failure every time I left him with the evening chores.

And the whole time, my husband was hiding in his office building, calling his mother on speakerphone to complain about me, while she wrote checks to strangers to clean our toilets.