My husband blamed me for our baby’s death and walked out. Six years later, the hospital called to say our son had been poisoned… and the security footage revealed the killer.

They told her about an aggressive genetic condition. They said it was irreversible. That sometimes life was just that cruel. That no one was to blame.

But Esteban did want someone to blame.

And he chose his wife.

Three days after the burial, when the house still smelled of wilted flowers and reheated broth from visitors, he brought her the divorce papers. He didn’t wait for the month of mourning. He didn’t feign confusion. He didn’t try to hug her one last time. He left the folder on the dining room table where they had once talked about cribs, names, and schools, and adjusted his watch with that elegant gesture that she had once found attractive but now made her stomach churn.

—The best thing to do is to cut your losses.