Mark’s face collapsed.
Daniel walked out.
Jenna followed him into the driveway, crying.
I stayed at the table with Mark.
The roast was getting cold.
Finally, he said, “You’re enjoying this.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
And I meant it.
“This is the worst week of my life.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
“Because if I start screaming, I’ll give you something to focus on besides what you did.”
He looked away.
That was the last Sunday dinner we had as a family.
The divorces weren’t instant.
There were lawyers.
Accounts. Furniture. Arguments about money.
Daniel moved out because he couldn’t stand being in the apartment he’d shared with Jenna.
Mark eventually moved into a rental.
The consequences were quieter than some dramatic revenge plan.
And worse.
Mark lost his marriage.
Daniel stopped speaking to him.
Our daughter, Amy, who lived out of state, learned what happened and told her father she needed distance.
