“My husband texted from vegas: ‘just married my coworker. You’re pathetic BTW.’ I replied: ‘cool.’ Then I blocked his cards and changed the house locks. Next morning, police were at my door…”

I should have known peace would not last.

It rarely does when wounded egos still have access to Wi-Fi.

Two mornings later, I woke to my phone buzzing nonstop on the nightstand.

Not a few notifications. Not the normal low buzz of modern life. A cascade. Text messages, tags, missed calls, Facebook alerts, Instagram mentions, LinkedIn notifications from people I hadn’t thought about in years. For one disorienting second, I thought someone must have died.

In a way, something had. Ethan’s public dignity, maybe.

By the time I opened the first post, I understood what had happened.

Ethan had gone to war.

Digital war, which is just old-fashioned character assassination with better graphics, and he had brought his mother and sister with him like backup singers in a pathetic little opera.

They had flooded every platform they could reach. Facebook first, because Margaret loved a broad audience of people just disconnected enough from the truth to be easily manipulated. Instagram next, because Lily never met a chance to perform that she didn’t seize. Even LinkedIn, which should be illegal for family drama but somehow isn’t.

Their story was polished. Coordinated. Ridiculous.