It was my mother’s sixtieth birthday, and the family had gathered for dinner. My wife, a fashion director, had said first thing that morning that she had to attend Fashion Week in Milan. During the meal, my cousin suddenly handed me her phone. “Brother-in-law... I mean, my cousin...” On the screen was a social media post from a male model signed to my wife’s agency. She was wearing an apron in a noisy vegetable market, helping his grandmother sell vegetables, her hair a little messy. The caption read: “A supermodel’s runway walk draws a crowd wherever she goes. Even the bustle of everyday life becomes a runway.” I swallowed my anger and commented, “Could you give me a discount on the vegetables for the sake of my front-row seat at the show?” In an instant, the company’s executive chat group exploded. She immediately called me from overseas, her voice icy. “Take your superiority complex and your comment back. Now!” I hung up and calmly sent her the divorce papers from my lawyer. It looked like we’d need a new theme for this birthday dinner.
