My name was Clara Jensen. I was thirty-four years old the night my marriage ended. If anyone had told me a week earlier that I would be effectively divorced via a text message, I would have laughed in their face. We weren’t wildly in love, but we were functional. We had a tidy brick house outside Chicago, a color-coded calendar, and a life that looked flawless from the curb.
At 2:47 AM that Tuesday, laughter was the last thing left in my body.
Ethan was supposed to be in Las Vegas for a marketing conference. He had kissed my cheek before leaving that morning, casually saying, “Don’t wait up if my flight gets in weird.”
