I stayed home the night my ex-husband married my sister. But when my youngest sister called, laughing so hard she could barely breathe, and told me someone had just exposed him mid-toast and drenched the newlyweds in red paint—I knew I couldn’t stay away.

My name is Lucy. I’m 32, and until about a year ago, I believed I had built a quiet, decent life. Nothing extravagant. Just stable. A steady job. A small, comfortable house. And a husband who kissed my forehead every morning before work and slipped handwritten notes into my lunch bag.
I worked as a billing coordinator for a dental group outside Milwaukee. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills, and I liked the predictability. I liked my lunch-hour walks, warm socks straight from the dryer, and the way my husband Oliver used to greet me with, “Hi, beautiful,” even when I still had acne cream on my face. Continue reading…