“I need some space,” my husband said, refusing to look at me. That night, I heard a car slow outside. I’m staying with a friend, he texted. I didn’t respond. Instead, I calmly checked the door camera. When a car I recognized all too well appeared in the darkness, I smiled. “That’s confirmation enough,” I murmured. Because from that second on… my plan was officially in motion.

“I need time,” my husband said, staring at the kitchen floor instead of at me.

His name was Ethan. We had been married for eleven years.

We were standing under the harsh white light above the sink, the digital clock on the microwave glowing 10:42 p.m., its steady numbers feeling louder than his voice. Ethan didn’t raise his tone. He didn’t explain. He didn’t even sound angry. He just stood there with his jacket already on, keys clutched in his hand, his body angled toward the door as if the decision had been made long before the sentence left his mouth.

“I need time,” he repeated, softer this time, like repetition might make it kinder.

Time—for what, exactly?

He didn’t wait for my answer.

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