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my feet couldn't make it onto the small rug beside my friend Catherine's sofa. I was too proud to call my mom and tell her she'd been right all along. For the first time in my life, I called in sick.
    I questioned my value without Ray. I traced over the details of our last year together, searching for the signs that should have given me an idea of what was going on. I was filled with anger. I hated Tina. I hated Ray. But, most of all, I hated me.
    A few days later, Catherine came over to the sofa with her home remedy for puffy eyes. "Now, Barbara, she began, as I lay mummified on her quilted sofa, "today is the day you're going back to work!" She put two soggy tea bags on rny eyes and made a feeble attempt at a pep talk, intermittently spooning more warm water on the tea bags. An hour later, I stumbled to the shower, and for the first time in days, looked in the mirror. I looked just like a raccoon.
    "Catherine?" I yelped. 'What kind of tea was that?"
    There was a long silence in the living room. "Oh my God!" she finally yelled back, its Bigelow Blackberry!"
    Six coats of Maybelline Coverstick and a whole lot of coaxing later I put on a don t-notice-me beige outfit—beige blouse, beige pants, and

    beige shoes—and walked to my office on East Fifty-eighth Street.
    I hesitantly stepped off the elevator, sucked in a long, slow breath, and marched into the sea of fourteen sales desks and salespeople facing me at the door. Everyone looked up. I had no idea what they knew, so I smiled my best smile and made a beeline for my office. "Good morning, Norma! Hello, Esther!" I waved as my eyes worked hard to avoid Tina's desk. Then I lost connection with my legs, and I tripped— no, flopped—onto the floor, a sprawled blur of embarrassed beige.
    Of course, Tina got to me first. "Are you okay, Barbara?" Ray's fiancee asked kindly. "You look like you hurt your knee."
    I knew my mother's red blotches were forming on my chest, and I was grateful for the beige turtleneck. 'Tm fine," I stammered, groping for the contents of my purse. "I'm fine!" I grabbed for my subway tokens and tampons as they rolled to the far reaches. "My purse is fine, my knee is fine, everything's just fine\"
    A phone rang, providing the needed distraction for me to limp into the office I shared with Ray.
    "Tina can't work for Corcoran-Simone anymore," I announced to Ray.
    "Tina's staying," Ray informed me. "Remember, Barbara, I'm the majority partner here, owning fifty-one percent, and that puts me in control of this business."
    Our romance had died a sudden death, but it would be a long time before we broke up the business. Somehow, I plowed through the next year and a half of entrances and smiles just fine, while slowly building the courage to walk away from Ray for good. One Thursday afternoon, as we made our usual weekly deposit at the bank, it hit me—now was the time.
    "Ray," I said, "I'm going to start my own company." His left eye twitched beneath his blue aviator shades, but he remained calm. "You might want to give that a little more thought," he suggested.

    So I did. Overnight. And what I thought was this: / actually know what I'm doing and I can do it without him. But how to leave him gracefully had me stumped.
    Lying in bed that night, I decided to suggest we divide our business the way my mom did her cake.
    Sunday night. Edge water.
    Mom made our favorite dessert on Sunday nights, a Duncan Hines Devil's Food Cake in a rectangular aluminum pan. After dinner, Mom placed the warm cake on top of two waffle-weave dish towels in the middle of the table, and we watched and drooled as she cut it into twelve pieces using the flat edge of her spatula. As we went around the table, each child eyed and vied for the biggest piece.
    When there were only two pieces left, it was Eddie's turn to pick, and he reached for the bigger of the two. "Eddie!" Mom interrupted. "Let your sister Ellen go first."
    Mom had a rule that when there were two pieces left of anything,