It was my mom’s sixtieth birthday, and the family had gathered for dinner. My husband, a fashion director, had said that morning he had to attend Fashion Week in Milan. During the meal, my cousin suddenly handed me her phone. “Sis... um, your husband...”
On the screen was a post from the social media account of a model under his management. He was wearing an apron and helping her grandmother hawk vegetables in a noisy produce market, his hair slightly disheveled.
The caption read: “A supermodel’s walk turns heads wherever she goes. Even the hustle and bustle of everyday life becomes a runway.”
I swallowed my surging emotions and commented, “Could you give me a discount on the vegetables, on account of the front-row seats at your show?”
The company’s executive group chat exploded instantly. His call from overseas came through right away, his voice icy. “Take your sense of superiority and that comment down, right now!”
I hung up and calmly sent him the divorce papers my lawyer had prepared. Looks like we’ll have to change the theme of this birthday dinner.
