How would you characterize your relationship with your husband?

Well, Detective, it was pretty damn bleak. We’d been growing apart for some time, and then I recently found out he was screwing his business partner, who is younger, firmer, and way richer than me. Riley wanted to save our marriage but I wasn’t able to move forward emotionally with him. We continued living together while planning how best to separate.

In the final months leading up to his death, Riley grew bitter.

Bitter and angry.

Riley wasn’t prone to anger, and even in his worst moments, he just tended to be sullen. But not long before he died, that changed. I’d told him I’d had enough of sharing the apartment and was going to find my own place, even though I could scarcely afford it. I needed out. We’d share Max fifty-fifty and figure out a schedule as we moved toward divorce.

Maybe Riley had still been clinging to a hope that we’d remain together, or perhaps he just didn’t like me making the final decision. But the sullenness became anger.

Searing anger.

You want to leave me? What the hell are you going to do with your life? You’re incapable of making money. How’re you going to pay for a place?

Name-calling.

You’re just a selfish bitch, you know that? You’re ruining our family.

Threats over Max.

If you think I’m going to let you take him away, you’re out of your mind. In fact, I’ll sue for full custody.

Riley changed into another person in those last weeks, a desperate, needy, and hateful little boy. I should have left sooner. Should have taken Max and stayed with friends. But a part of me was convinced I could stabilize Riley, get him to accept our marriage was over and we both needed to get on with our lives. We were still going to have to raise Max together, and I wanted Riley in a more grounded place before I left.

I thought that would be the best thing for Max.

But Riley didn’t stabilize. He got worse.

I should have anticipated that.

Riley started drinking earlier in the day and finishing later at night, always capped off with his prescription sleeping pills, which would knock him out until late in the morning. He stopped looking for work, hardly left the apartment, hardly spoke to either Max or me. Just brooded like a sullen child convinced the world was out to get him.

But for all his horrible behavior, he was never violent. I was never scared of him.

I should’ve been.

The light of my world remains blocked by the black mass of all my should’ves.

On that last night, the last of his life, he walked into our bedroom while I was folding laundry on the bed. I could tell he was already several drinks in on the evening. He thought I was packing, that I was leaving him that night, and he flipped out.

What the hell are you doing?