That was the first thing I said when my ex-husband, Anthony Caldwell, called me less than 24 hours after our divorce was finalized in a Manhattan courtroom that still smelled vaguely of paper and indifference.
He didn’t greet me, he didn’t hesitate, and he certainly didn’t pretend that it was anything other than anger wrapped in arrogance.
“What the hell did you do, Marissa?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the silence of my apartment. “My mother’s card was just declined at Bergdorf Goodman, and they treated her like she was trying to steal something.”
I leaned against the marble countertop in my kitchen and watched the steam slowly rise from my coffee, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind him that I no longer rushed to fill the gaps for his comfort.
