The morning my marriage ended, it did not start with screaming.

It started with a demand for money.

The evening before, my husband stood in our kitchen with his phone in one hand and his mother on speaker, the two of them behaving as if the decision had already been made.

“It’s temporary,” he said, pacing beside the sink.

“Mom just needs help getting through this month.”

I stared across the table at the amount written on the back of an envelope.

Eight thousand dollars.