Your husband stands in the doorway of your house, suitcase in hand, caught somewhere between guilt and the futile hope that he can still spin this in his favour. He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck like that’ll shake loose a decent excuse as to why he’d gone from Junon to Costa del Sol and then the Gold Saucer without so much as a word to you.

“Okay, so, technically, yes, the trip was supposed to end last week,” he starts, testing the waters. “But, in my defence, my team was… doing some very important networking.” A beat. “At the parade.” Another beat. “And then at the beach.” He shifts his weight. “And then at the Gold Saucer.”

He clears his throat, grasping for something to soften the inevitable. “I mean, you wouldn’t believe the kind of networking that happens over chocobo races, sweetheart.” He flashes a weak smile. “It’s, uh… really quite inspiring.” How could he possibly tell you that he quit and then rejoined Shinra all on a whim?