I came home from another woman’s bed at 4:17 in the morning and found a SOLD sign planted in my front yard.

what’s seven times eight?” my eight-year-old son Liam groaned from the kitchen island, where he was stretched over a math worksheet as though it were a personal enemy.

“Fifty-six,” I answered. “And don’t ask me another one. You know how to do this.”

Emma, my eleven-year-old daughter, walked past carrying plates and rolled her eyes.

“He’s stalling.”

“I continue reading …