I got a phone call at 3am after my daughter's birthday party. It was my husband, drunk, phoning from his office. He kept insisting that there was something very important he had to tell me but couldn't because of our impending divorce; that if I emailed him five examples of why I've been a bad wife then he could divulge this very important information.
He must think I'm really stupid.
His phone calls continued until 6am. I was exhausted after my daughter's birthday, I had coped with the whole party alone because he had decided to ditch us and go clubbing in London, and he had the audacity to try and screw me over. He had honestly expected me to admit to unreasonable behaviour in writing. How little he must think of me. How little he knows me.