So yes, on paper, life looked good. I had the company, the house, the family, the kind of stability most men spend their whole lives trying to build. I had come home early because my wife, Hannah, said she needed to talk.
She said it was important, that she wanted me there, and the way she said it had stuck in my head all afternoon like a warning light on a dashboard. Hannah was thirty-five, and we had been married for fourteen years. We met when her father, John, asked me to find her a car for her twentieth birthday.
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When she came to pick it up, we clicked right away, and a year later, we were married. Now we had two boys, James, twelve, and Martin, ten. Hannah’s father, John, was a good man.
He was an accountant, a partner at his firm, and he had always backed me when it came to the business. Her mother, Stephanie, was different. She had disliked me from the beginning and called me cruel names whenever she thought she could get away with it, always making it clear she believed Hannah could have done better.
