The night my husband looked me straight in the eyes and casually mentioned that his friends didn’t think I was “special enough” for him, something inside my chest just went completely cold. He actually stood there, looked at his wife of four years, and said, “They think I could find something better.” I didn’t scream.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw the ceramic mug I was holding. I only looked back at him and said, very softly, “Then go find something better.” Evan was standing at the kitchen island with his phone in one hand and a sweating beer bottle beside his wrist.

He delivered this soul-crushing commentary like he was discussing grocery prices or the terrible Seattle traffic outside, completely detached from the reality that he had just detonated a bomb in the middle of our marriage. The rain outside had turned the windows silver, and the last light of the evening made the whole room feel faded and unreal, like a photograph left out in the sun.

He actually blinked at me. It was a slow, confused blink, like a man who had just stepped off a curb and unexpectedly plunged into deep water. He hadn’t expected me to answer that way. In his mind, I was supposed to get defensive. I was supposed to list my qualities, to fight for his approval, to demand to know which of his awful friends had said it, and to beg him to validate me.

“Lauren, come on,” he said, shifting his weight. A defensive edge crept into his tone. “I’m just telling you what they said. You know how the guys are. They’re idiots. It’s a joke.” “Then go find something better,” I said again. I wrapped both hands tightly around my coffee mug so he wouldn’t notice that my fingers were shaking.

It wasn’t sadness making me tremble; it was pure, unadulterated adrenaline. “If you really think you can do better, you should.” He let out this short, nervous laugh that didn’t sound amused at all.