When I married Edmund Mason, he'd just gone bankrupt. Millions in debt. And he came with a two-year-old son his late wife had left behind.
During the day, he worked his regular job. At night, he drove a cab to earn extra money.
I couldn't work full-time because someone had to take care of Felix, and I felt so guilty watching Edmund run himself ragged that I never let him lift a finger around the house.
Every night after the boy fell asleep, I'd head to a nightclub to mop floors and scrub toilets, hoping to shoulder even a fraction of the burden.
The jeans I was wearing had been washed so many times the cuffs were fraying. I couldn't bring myself to buy a new pair.
The Club Manager images from that video replayed in my mind: the multimillion-dollar mansion, the trophy encrusted with gold and diamonds, and Edmund cooking for someone else.
I couldn't name what I was feeling.
"God, you're so loud! Do you even know what time it is? Why haven't you left yet?"
My seven-year-old stepson, Felix Mason, emerged from his bedroom, rolling his eyes like a jaded little adult.
"Dad works himself to the bone to support this family, and all you do is sit around being lazy and bothering him."