Chapter 1My Ex Husband Begs For Scraps

The night my husband, Spencer, said, "We’re done," I didn't cry.

The next morning, I woke at the usual hour.

The pitcher on the counter was empty, so I took the bucket out to the spigot in the yard to draw water. The winter water was bone-numbingly cold.

When I came back, I lit the electric kettle and reheated last night’s leftovers.

The door to his study was still closed—he always slept until the late morning sun hit the window.

I wiped the breakfast table until the surface was free of even a hint of grease and set out the simple jarred preserves.

Then, I took the spare key I usually kept hanging by the door and placed it gently on the floor beside his slightly worn leather wingtips.

I never went back.

* * *

If I have one skill in this world, it’s endurance.

Marrying Spencer Ashworth was the biggest news on our street.

I was a worker at The Redwood Canning Facility, perpetually smelling of processed tomatoes and steam. He was a newly hired junior associate at the prestigious Harrington Foundation for the Arts—clean, refined, and his shirt collar was always perfectly starched.

Everyone said I’d caught a falling star.

My parents agreed, constantly reminding me to cater to his needs, to keep up appearances, and not to lose this dignity he had bestowed upon me.

And so, I served.

He liked sweets, so I learned to bake delicate, fussy pastries. He complained the house was noisy, so I moved my sewing machine into the hallway. He preferred silence, so I learned to hold my tongue.

We’d been married for three years, and he’d never once touched the laundry or dealt with the bills.

His mother, a retired elementary school principal, never failed to lecture me during dinner.

“Our Spencer is destined for great things. Alice, you must be supportive. You cannot be a weight dragging down his future.”

I’d nod and place the choicest, most tender pieces of pot roast in her bowl.

Be supportive.

I had been supportive for three long years.

It wasn't until the water had gone completely cold that I realized if I stayed submerged any longer, I would freeze to death.

Spencer changed after the Foundation’s annual gala.

He started coming home later and later. The familiar scent of old paper and ink on his clothes was replaced by a strange, cloyingly sweet designer cologne.

At first, I told myself it was just from the party guests.

That was until the day I went to drop off a crucial document he’d forgotten.

Outside the entrance to the Foundation’s main building, I saw him.

He was bent over, holding open the door of a brand-new, charcoal-gray Audi for a woman. She had a stylish, dark, shoulder-length bob, was wearing oversized sunglasses, and had an air of casual wealth about her.

It was Vanessa Harrington, the Councilman’s daughter, recently returned from a stint in Europe.

The smile on Spencer's face was one I had never seen directed at me. It was eager, deferential, and radiant.

I stood by the gate for a long time, the forgotten papers fluttering in my hand in the sharp breeze.

I didn't go in. I was afraid the smell of tomato paste and steam on my clothes would somehow stain his perfect new picture.

I held the documents tight and walked home.

That night, when he finally came back, he yelled at me for the first time.

“Where are the financials? Don’t you know how urgent that was? You couldn’t even handle one simple thing! What good are you?”

I just looked at him, saying nothing.

He gave me a look of pure disgust: “You reek of the kitchen. Stay away from me.”

He slept in the study that night.