That word would end our eight-year marriage, though Tyler didn’t know it yet. He was too busy comforting his “female best friend,” Charlotte Thomas, over her latest manufactured crisis to realize his wife was lying in Riverside General’s emergency room, selecting between rage and morphine.

This morning felt like a different lifetime. At 6:30 a.m., I’d stood in our kitchen making Tyler’s breakfast exactly how he liked it: two eggs over easy, three strips of bacon crispy enough to destr0y, wheat toast with just a whisper of butter.

“Charlotte’s having another crisis,” he’d declared over breakfast.

The soft, private smile playing on his lips was the one that applied to be reserved for me. Now, it belonged to her text messages.