Chapter 1 - The Fever on the Kitchen Floor
Ethan knocked the thermometer off the counter before he touched me.
It hit the hardwood floor with a small plastic crack and spun once beneath the kitchen island.
104°F.
That was the last number I saw before the screen flashed sideways.
My hand tightened around the open medicine bottle, but my fingers were too weak. White pills spilled across the polished wood like tiny pieces of shame.
I was standing in our luxury kitchen in a pale pink sweater, shaking so hard my teeth clicked, one palm braced against the white marble counter because I could not trust my own legs.
The chandelier over the dining table glowed warmly.
The cabinets were spotless.
The copper pans Ethan’s mother loved to praise hung above the range.
The house looked calm.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
The kind of home people assumed contained good marriages because the counters were clean and the floors shined.
Ethan stormed toward me in his fitted gray polo and dark trousers, face cold with the kind of impatience he usually reserved for delayed restaurant reservations.
“I work all day,” he said. “The least you could do is make dinner.”
Then he shoved my shoulder.
Hard.
Not enough to break anything.
Enough to send my fever-weakened body sideways.
Enough that my hip struck the cabinet before I collapsed onto the floor.
Enough that I heard Patricia, his mother, make a soft amused sound from the dining table.
I landed on one side, breath knocked out of me.
The pills rolled near my hand.
The fallen thermometer lay beside my knee.
Patricia remained seated in her light blue blouse and dark pants, blonde bob perfectly styled, one hand wrapped around a wine glass as if watching her daughter-in-law shake on the floor were part of the evening entertainment.
Her mouth curled.
“A wife who can’t even cook is completely useless.”
I tried to reach for the pills.
My hand trembled too badly.
Ethan crouched, but not to help me.
He snatched a folder from the table and tossed it down in front of me.
The folder struck the floor and slid across the scattered pills.
Divorce papers spilled out.
Clean.
Prepared.
Waiting.
“Sign it,” Ethan said.
May you like
Flatly.
Like he was telling me to take out the trash.
