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And as Neil sat on the couch, flipping through Netflix like nothing had happened, I finally saw it for what it was.
That night, I ordered a pizza. Greasy, cheesy, unapologetically imperfect. I ate it alone, the candles still burning faintly in the kitchen.
The next morning, as sunlight spilled across the table, I opened my laptop and typed an email to my attorney.
“Let’s move forward. I’m ready.”
No screaming. No dramatic confrontation. Just the quiet certainty that I was done living small.
Neil would later tell friends that our marriage ended over “a stupid chicken.” He’d laugh, shaking his head, painting me as irrational.
But it was never about the chicken.
It was about the years of being measured, corrected, and diminished. About the endless rules that made me feel like an intruder in my own home. About the way he could throw away not just food, but effort, love, and me—without a second thought.
Months later, after the divorce, I met Theo.
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