Every morning, we followed the same exact ritual, a silent play performed on the suburban stage of White Plains. My five-year-old son, Caleb, and I would walk hand-in-hand with my husband, Marcus, to the Metro-North station. He was immaculate in his tailored gray suit, the scent of starched cotton and expensive leather clinging to him like a second skin. His leather briefcase, held with a grip that suggested immense importance, completed the picture. To the outside world, he was the perfect husband, the responsible father that any woman would dream of having by her side.
