I didn’t even know if I meant it. Or if I just wanted him to hurt the way I was hurting.
I turned and stormed upstairs, slamming the bedroom door so hard the frame rattled.
I waited for him to follow. He didn’t. And somehow that felt worse than anything he could have said.
The cappuccino was lukewarm by the time Abigail arrived, which felt painfully on-brand for my life. Everything starts hot and hopeful and then gets abandoned halfway through because someone needs something.
Abigail slid into the chair opposite me like she’d stepped off a glossy campaign and into my chaotic, crumpled reality by mistake.
She was still one of those women who turned heads without trying. Tall. Elegant. Dark hair glossy and controlled. Makeup subtle but perfect. Nails freshly done. Outfit effortless in that maddening way that made you suspect she had a stylist living in her wardrobe.
I looked down at myself: practical bun, puffy eyes, leggings that had survived too many washes, and a jumper I was 90% sure had snot on the sleeve.
Abigail’s gaze flicked over me and softened, not judgmental. Never. Just… seeing.
“Okay,” she said, setting her espresso down. “Talk to me.”
I exhaled. “I told Dan we should get a divorce.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Casual.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“Is anything in your life planned?” she asked sweetly, then leaned in. “What happened?”
I told her about PE day. Lost property. Smell-of-feet trauma. The Coke. The eye roll. When I finished, Abigail sat back like she was about to deliver a verdict.
“So,” she said slowly, “let me get this straight. You and Dan don’t fight, don’t laugh, and mostly communicate via passive-aggressive sticky notes?”
I sighed. “They’re not all passive aggressive. Sometimes they’re just informative.”
“Like what?”
I took a sip of my now-horrible cappuccino. “Like, ‘We’re out of milk’ or ‘Please stop leaving your socks in the fridge.’”
She blinked. “I’m sorry, socks in the fridge?”
“It happened once,” I muttered.
“Emma.”
“Fine. Twice.”
Abigail put a hand on her chest. “Your marriage is a case study.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” she said, eyes shining. “You sound like you and Dan are co-CEOs of a failing start-up. One of those doomed companies where nobody actually knows what they do, but everyone’s miserable and on the verge of quitting.”
I snorted. “That is… painfully accurate.”
Abigail warmed to her theme immediately.
“You are runningMarriage Inc.and the stocks have plummeted, investors are fleeing, and the apprentices are eating crayons in the coffee room.”
She always relates everything to business. After all, business is her life.
I laughed. A real laugh, startling in my throat.
