A few days later, after I’d mowed the lawn to within an inch of its life and edged every edge and cleaned out the garage and emptied out my closets and bought fragrant and manly candles to reduce the barnyard quotient of my office, all the while considering how I might have given Lauren a thousand million reasons to hate me over the years, I sent her a text: “I don’t know much. But I know this: I’m an assface.” And the wildest thing happened. She said, “I am, too.” Nobody told me fighting for my marriage would be less a fight than a kneeling in humiliation at the feet of my enemy. In those
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