The divorce was uncomplicated. My condo was mine before the marriage, my income was mine, and the folder did the rest. Camille and Grayson separated once the arithmetic became public, because a marriage does not easily survive a spouse discovering where nineteen hundred dollars a month has been going for half a decade.

Rosalind called me again in the spring. Not to scream. To ask, quietly, whether I had known. I told her the truth, which is that I had trusted my husband the same way she had trusted her daughter-in-law, and that neither of us had been the fool the other assumed.

I bought myself the seafood platter on my next birthday. I ate it alone, on my own balcony, and it was the best meal I have had in years.

They handed me an empty plate at a table my labour had set, certain I was a stray who should be grateful for scraps. I had been feeding all of them, and it took a bare piece of porcelain to make me finally check who was eating. A person is not an account to be drained. The night I walked out was the first night in five years the numbers finally belonged to me.