He left her on the side of the road, like a rotting couch.
She offers no explanation. Eventually I learn from experience what must have happened. Night after night in her habitual intoxicated rage she threw food and words and punches as she always does; until eventually in a vengeful, controlling, calculated act of spite and malice she sold his beloved collection of vintage baseball cards — as she would later sell my vintage guitar. To hurt him, because he'd crossed her. So that he eventually decided enough was enough.
He isn't alone. We all made too many excuses. Lulled by science ("it's a disease") and by the better angel on her shoulder. When the reality is she's a narcissistic, entitled, violent, coiled spring of rage, exactly as her step mother taught her to be.