Chance and I have long since made our peace with each other, but I now appear to the outside world like an abused woman. On the subway, I catch riders glancing at my arms with surreptitious sympathy. At Wawa, the clerk gives me a knowing look, as if to say, "Dump the bastard, honey, he ain't worth it." And one of my feminist friends (I have a few, close your mouth) told me that maybe now I'll have some empathy for the women who donned pink hats to express their disgust with Trump.