Jeff flings open the front door, and Mr. Stringer is standing there. I am in the doorway of the bedroom now, my luggage in my hands as I see my husband trying to grapple with the idea that one of his supervisors from work is standing here on our doorstep now, clearly listening to us fight.

My husband tries to compose himself. “Mr. Stringer. What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice bordering on still out of control as he attempts to get himself back into a civilized ...