Fifteen years ago, I stood in the hallway of our home holding my nine-month-old daughter in my arms while my wife, Maya, packed her belongings into suitcases.
I can still remember the sound of the zipper closing.
The quiet footsteps.
The suitcase wheels rolling across the floor.
And the words she said to me before she walked out the door.
“You can’t give me the life I deserve,” Maya said. “But Harry can.”
She didn’t lower her voice.
She didn’t seem worried that our baby was in my arms or that our other daughters were nearby.
“Harry bought me a brand-new car,” she continued. “He took me to the islands. That’s the life I want—not diapers, a mortgage, and babies crying all night.”
Harry was her boss.
He was wealthy.
And by the time Maya left, I already knew enough to understand that this wasn’t simply about money. She had been having an affair with him for months.
I stood there, stunned, trying to understand how the woman I had built a family with could look at our children and see them as obstacles to the life she wanted.
