My former husband, a man who once introduced himself proudly as Victor Alvarez, had developed an almost theatrical relationship with humiliation, as though the ability to diminish someone else in public provided him with proof that he remained powerful.
So when his message appeared on my phone late one evening, glowing softly against the dim kitchen light while my twin sons slept in the next room, the tone of the invitation felt painfully familiar.
“You should come to my cousin’s wedding this weekend,” the message read.
A moment later another line followed.
“It might be good for you to see how well I’m doing without you.”
The words did not contain anger.
They contained something worse.
Satisfaction.
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