Marriage is hard for everyone. If you tell me you haven’t had a few bumps in your wedded road, then you’re lying. We’ve had more bumps than I care to admit, and clearly for longer than I even knew. A bad taste floats into my mouth as I think of Elizabeth James. It’s the taste your mouth has before the dentist shoots you with novocaine, the acid that floods your taste buds just before you realize you’re going to throw up.

At the moment, Elizabeth isn’t my biggest issue, though. I take a right onto Port Chelsea Place. I love the mature trees, the blissful suburban perfection of this street. All of the homes have been redone in a shingled cottage style, but they aren’t cottage sized. I take a deep breath and pull to the curb behind a bright yellow carpet cleaning van, its color scheme sure to draw more attention than another black Audi on this street.

I hurry out of my car, careful to stay shielded behind the carpet cleaning van. Two doors down, across the street, David’s car is parked in the driveway of the beautiful Cape Cod–inspired $3.85-million-dollar, 4,227-square-foot residence. From the real-estate listing page I have saved on my computer—oh, come on, you didn’t believe me when I said I hadn’t looked online, did you?—I already knew about the “open and airy floor plan,” the casual elegance that will make entertaining “simply a delight.” The large great room with sliding, invisible doors opening to the meticulously landscaped yard. The home boasts six bedrooms and six baths, including a spa-like master suite with a vaulted and beamed ceiling. “It’s move-in ready, professionally staged, and all furniture is available for purchase with the home.” What a deal!!

I tip my head down into the collar of my black rain jacket and hurry down the sidewalk, stopping behind the huge eucalyptus tree between the street and the sidewalk, directly across the street from David’s Tesla.

And there they are. Kylie and David, standing side by side near the front door. A woman wearing a bright pink top hugs Kylie and then David before walking to her car, a typical Realtor luxury Mercedes in beige, and driving away. It’s just the three of us now. I hope for David’s sake that Kylie, too, will walk away, jump back inside her brand-new white Audi and drive back to the office. She’s facilitated the transaction and now it’s time for her to go. She can keep the car. I’ll keep the rest.

A pain shoots through my right temple and my stomach flips as I watch David bend and scoop Kylie into his arms, slip the key into the light blue front door and carry her inside. As the door closes behind them I feel the fire in my belly ignite. That’s it. It’s war.