My own career had only just started to take off. If I divorced him, raising a child alone, the financial strain would be brutal.

But more than that, I couldn't stand it.

I couldn't stand handing over five years of marriage to a woman Brad described as lively, sunny, and free of pretense.

I'd met Agatha Pruitt a few times.

Every time, she was dressed to the last detail, her makeup flawless, her voice pitched just so, every word like it had been rehearsed.

In front of Brad, she always wore the same look: I don't understand any of this, so come teach me.

"Brad, can you take a look at this proposal for me, pretty please?"

"Brad, that theory you mentioned last time was so deep. Explain it to me again?"

"Brad, you're too good to me. I don't even know how to repay you."

Soft, coaxing, every sentence trailing up at the end, every word with a hook in it.

I used to think that was just her personality. Now I understood it wasn't personality at all. It was a tactic.

And Brad ate it up.

To him, that was lively and sunny and unpretentious.

That was being genuine.

That was holding nothing back.

And me?

I was the one who was too serious, too earnest, who didn't know how to put a man at ease.

I handled everything that actually mattered, and he found me dull.

She didn't have to do a thing. She just had to play cute, and he thought she was wonderful.

I don't know if that counts as irony, but I did find it funny.

Funny enough to make me want to cry.

Before I could even decide what to do, the news came that our son's preschool was holding a parent-child sports day over the weekend.

It required both parents to attend.

I also wanted to use it as a chance to thaw things between us a little.

I told Brad. He just frowned and said, "I've got something that day."

"What something?"

"I leave for a business trip Friday night."

"The sports day is Saturday morning. Can't you leave Saturday morning instead?"

He shot me a look. I knew that look. It was impatience.

"Hope, I told you I have something. It's a preschool sports day. You can go by yourself. There's no need for both of us to be there."

I didn't waste any more words trying to argue with him.

But I quietly checked his schedule.

It took me less than an hour to find out: Friday night, Brad wasn't going on any business trip.

His car was parked in a spot at that complex on the east side of the city.

It stayed there until the early hours of Saturday before it left.

Saturday morning, I took our son to the sports day alone.

Every other kid had both a mom and a dad. Our son stood alone beside me, looking up at me, and said quietly, "Mom, where's Dad?"

"Dad's away on a business trip."

He went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a sob in his voice.

"Mom, does Dad not like me?"

I crouched down and looked him in the eyes.

"It's not that he doesn't like you. Dad's just very busy."

He was still hiccuping through his tears.

"But Cody's dad is busy too, and he came today."

I didn't know what to say. All I could do was scoop him up.

"Mommy likes you. Mommy will always like you."

When the sports day ended, there was an activity called "A Gift for Mom and Dad."

Aaron made a card. On it he'd drawn three people: Dad, Mom, and him.

Beside Dad's head, he'd drawn a big question mark.

The teacher said, "Aaron, why did you draw a question mark?"

He tilted his head up. "Because Dad's always so busy. I can't remember what Dad looks like."

I held that card, my hands trembling.

That night, Brad came home a little after nine.

I sat in the living room with the lights off, his tired face lit only by the streetlamp glow coming through the window.

"How was the sports day?"

He asked while he changed out of his shoes.

"It was fine."

"Did Aaron have fun?"

My voice was flat.

"He had fun."

He didn't seem to catch the edge in it. He just nodded and started toward the study.

"Brad."

I called him back.

He stopped and turned to look at me.

"Where were you yesterday, really?"

His expression didn't shift, but something flickered in his eyes.

"I already told you. A business trip."

"Where?"

"Chicago."

I wasn't letting it go.

"Which hotel?"

He finally looked at me, his brow creasing.

"You're checking up on me?"

"I'm asking you."

"Hope," his voice went cold, "what exactly are you trying to say?"

I let out a thin laugh, took the sealed bag out of the drawer, and set it on the coffee table.

Inside was that strand of chestnut hair.

"I found this in your car."

He glanced at it, and his face finally changed.

I saw it clearly. It wasn't guilt. It was irritation.

"You've been going through my car?"

I smiled instead.

Only someone caught dead-on reacts like that.

"It was wound around the seatbelt buckle. No going through anything. You could see it at a glance."

He was silent for a few seconds, then explained, "That belongs to a coworker. I gave her a ride."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Which coworker?"

Brad clammed up.

"You don't know her."

And I went straight ahead and tore open this sham of a marriage that had been impossible to hold together for a long time.

"Is it Agatha?"

He froze.

I watched his face and smiled.

It must have been an ugly smile, because he turned his head away.

"Brad, what's going on between you and Agatha?"

"We're friends," he said, certain of himself. "She's been going through some things lately, she's been down, so I keep her company and talk it through with her, help her get it off her chest. That's all."

"If that's all, then why lie to me? Why say you were on a business trip?"

"Because you'd read too much into it. You always do. You can turn anything into something complicated."

"I read too much into it?"

I stood up, and my voice finally slipped out of my control.

"Brad, you're on the phone with another woman every day, you send her flowers, you have dinner with her, you're parked outside her place in the middle of the night, and you're telling me I'm the one making it complicated?"

"I haven't done a single thing to wrong you!"

His voice rose too. "Agatha isn't like—"

He stopped halfway.

But the word "isn't" was already out.

"Agatha isn't like me?"

I finished it for him. "How am I not like her? Go on, say it!"

He stopped talking.

"Say it!"

I walked right up to him.

"You think she's lively and bright and doesn't put on airs, and I'm too serious, too dull, right?"

"You think being with her is easy, and being with me is exhausting, right?"

"You've wanted to say this for a long time. Today's as good a time as any. Say it. Don't keep it bottled up."

He looked into my eyes, his lips moved, and in the end he said nothing.

But his silence was the answer.

I took a step back, and all at once I felt so tired.

Five years.

I'd thought we were building a marriage.

It turned out that, in his eyes, I was only a relationship that wore him out.

And that woman was the one who made everything feel easy.

My voice had gone hoarse.

"Brad, think it through."

"You want to be with her, I won't stop you. You want to keep this marriage, then delete her and never contact her again. I'm giving you three days."

With that, I turned and went back to the bedroom and shut the door.

That night, he didn't come in.

I heard him on the phone in the study, his voice low, but I still caught a few words.

"Don't worry... it's fine... I'll handle it..."

His tone was gentle in a way that wasn't like him at all.

I closed my eyes, and the tears finally came.

Three days passed. Brad gave me no answer.

The days slipped by, one after another.

He went out the same as always, came home late the same as always, the corner of his mouth still tugging up the same as always whenever he looked at his phone.

As if those things I'd said had never existed at all.

I finally understood.

He didn't need time to think.

He simply didn't want to think.

He figured I'd carry on like before, make a fuss for a couple of days, then swallow it down on my own, compromise on my own, choke back every last grievance on my own.

He figured I wouldn't leave, because if I left I'd have nothing.

But what he didn't know was that over those three days, I'd made a decision.

I was going to leave him.