Carter spent eight years reminding me that every comfortable thing in our marriage came from him. At a family dinner, he put divorce papers beside my plate and challenged me to see how long I could manage without his money while his mother laughed. I signed in front of all of them. Before I was out of the restaurant, my attorney texted me one detail Carter clearly had not expected to matter: he had filed first, and Clause 14 was now active.

Before those events, he sometimes inspected me in the mirror.

“Smile tonight.”

“I usually do.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He would straighten his cuff.

“People already wonder how I ended up marrying down.”

The first time he said it, I thought he was making a bad joke.

The second time, I told him it was insulting.

By the fifth or sixth time, he had rewritten it as motivation.

“I’m trying to help you,” he said. “These people notice everything.”

Patricia noticed everything too.

Or believed she did.

She could walk into our house and find criticism before removing her coat.

The flowers by the entry needed replacing.

The dining room was too dark.

The guest towels were too plain.

I should entertain more.

I should entertain less formally.

I should dress more carefully when Carter had clients over.

I should not dress as if I were “trying too hard.”