At a class reunion, she drank too much and cried, saying she wants a divorce.

We thought her husband was abusive.
She said: He’s a civil servant, earns 7,000, gives me 6,000, and cooks dinner every day when he gets home.
The whole room was silent.
I asked: Divorce from what?
She wiped her tears: He doesn’t understand me. No flowers on our anniversary, no replies to my messages, sleeping back to back, facing away from each other.
I said: What do you want?
She shouted: Romance! Surprises! Heart-fluttering!
A sister beside her butted in: My husband earns 30,000 a month, never comes home, is that romantic?
She froze.
That sister added: How about we swap with each other?
She didn’t say anything.
Later, her husband came to pick her up and silently handed her a coat.
After she got in the car, he asked me in a low voice: Is she causing trouble again?
I said: No. She said you’re really good.
He smiled: I know. But I can’t give her what she wants.
I asked: Then what do we do?
He pulled open the car door: Just wait—when she figures it out someday, a romantic person doesn’t necessarily come home and cook.
The car drove away.
I glanced at my phone. My husband sent a message: I’m working overtime tonight—eat on your own.
I replied: Mm-hm.
Then I deleted the chat window.