My wife and I were fine before John. We’d fall asleep in each other’s arms and split fresh pastries at the breakfast table. But when John arrived, he lay between us at night, kicking and screaming. He’d sit on my wife’s lap at breakfast and spew toast into my cereal. One morning, as I watched soggy crumbs bob in the milk, I told my wife this wasn’t working. She left that afternoon with John in one hand and a suitcase in the other. At the bottom of the driveway, John turned to look at me one final time. He still had crumbs in his beard.