My name is Clara Jensen. I’m thirty-four, and a year ago I would have laughed if someone told me my marriage would end before I even realized it was already dead.

But at 2:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, laughter no longer existed in me.

The house was unnaturally quiet. I had fallen asleep on the couch, the TV muted, the screen washing the room in pale light. When my phone vibrated, I reached for it lazily, assuming it was nothing—maybe Ethan texting from his work trip in Vegas.

Instead, my breath vanished.