I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jasmine got her shit together to leave Dimitri pretty quickly. Within two weeks of her telling me she wanted to divorce him, she had already contacted a good divorce lawyer, funneled away enough money into a separate bank account in order to put down a deposit and the first month of rent on an apartment in Cambridge, and officially broke the news to Dimitri. She told me she was going to do it on a Friday night; I spent all evening holding my breath, waiting for the frantic phone call that she needed help. I stayed in and watched a movie on Netflix with my phone resting in my hand, just in case. But the call never came—just a text at nearly midnight, asking me to come by the next morning to help her pack up her things. I was relieved.

So, on Saturday morning, for the final time, I drive to see Jasmine at her house. It’s a gorgeous seventy-five degrees outside, but I get a chill waiting on the front step for her to open the door. It’s hard to imagine that after nearly a lifetime with Dimitri, she’ll be leaving him behind for good. She opens the door in white jeans and a pink tank top and throws her arms around me into a hug.

“Thank you for coming!” she says.

She seems relieved to see me, which is, I guess, better than the alternative—miserable.

“I’m happy to,” I say. “Is Dimitri home?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. He was at least nice enough to leave me alone while I packed today.”

“So, then, last night went okay?” I ask.

She heaves a sigh and starts to trudge up the stairs to her bedroom. “Yes and no. At first, he was furious. He screamed at me. He wanted to know if I was cheating, and he accused me of sabotaging Tokyo by throwing this distraction his way at a ‘crucial time,’ ” she says, rolling her eyes and making air quotes with her fingers. “He was mad at me, but ultimately, he didn’t argue with me. I mean, he can’t pretend like our marriage is happy. I think we’d both be happier with a divorce.”

“Wow.”

It’s a tiny, meager thing to say, but words just aren’t forming for me. I can’t imagine standing up to Dimitri like that. I’m impressed by her bravery.

We enter her bedroom, and I try not to think about the would-be baby’s room down the hall. The crisp white bed is covered with folded piles of clothes, and there’s a stack of cardboard boxes piled in one corner of the room. On the nightstand, there’s a roll of packing tape and a black Sharpie alongside Jasmine’s engagement ring and wedding ring, and a silver photo frame turned facedown.