When I came home late from the hospital, my husband slapped me hard and screamed, “Do you know what time it is, you useless b!.tch?

I watched the screen. Beneath the text, the small gray word appeared. Read.

I waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.

No reply.

He had read a message stating his unborn child was dead, and he had chosen not to respond. The final, fragile thread tethering me to the illusion of my marriage snapped. There was no love left. There was only a profound, suffocating disgust.

“I need to go home, Dad,” I whispered, dropping the phone onto the blanket. My voice was dead, devoid of inflection. “I need to pack my things. I can’t stay there anymore.”

Arthur nodded slowly. He didn’t ask if I was sure. He didn’t suggest marriage counseling. He assessed the tactical situation: the target location was hostile, the asset was compromised, and extraction was required.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

The ride back to my house was executed in total silence. I stared out the window of Arthur’s heavy, black F-250 truck, watching the streetlights bleed into the darkness.