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such a thing, and that if he did, losing me would be his loss, not mine.
    Still, occasionally these thoughts creep in unbidden (I probably should have mentioned this to Dr. Delgado. I bet he’d have given me some medication if he knew) and then I recall how my royal ancestresses handled their business when betrayed by a man:
    Princess Rosagunde
    The first princess of Genovia, Rosagunde, strangled her husband—the chief of an invading tribe of marauders—to death in his sleep with her braid, an act of heroism for which she was then unanimously named ruler of her village.
    I’d never do something like that to Michael, of course, since violence is never the answer (my hair’s not long enough anyway), and I do not want to spend the rest of my life in jail like the ladies in Orange Is the New Black .
    But since I’m descended from Rosagunde, the capacity for this kind of brutality runs through my veins—even though sadly I can never seem to summon it when I need to, like when teenagers behind me in the movie theater won’t stop texting, especially during the dramatic moments. Then I merely get Lars, my bodyguard, to get up and glare at them threateningly.
    Princess Mathilde
    Upon discovering reports of her intended’s multiple affairs, my ancestress Princess Mathilde donned full body armor, rode to his home, then proceeded to smash every piece of furniture in it with a battle-ax.
    Then she rode away, taking with her his favorite hunting dogs, servants, and horses, claiming them as compensation for her broken heart.
    He was much too frightened of her to protest.
    Michael doesn’t have any servants, much less any horses, and his beloved dog Pavlov died not too long ago of old age (dogs don’t live as long as cats). Michael does, however, have a lot of furniture, plus tons of Star Wars memorabilia that he values greatly. He has every single Princess Leia action figure, some still in the box!
    Still, I’d feel weird about smashing up his house with an ax, then stealing his stuff. Maybe I’d just light all the boxer briefs he’s left over here on fire (in the sink, for safety).
    Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo
    It’s a not-very-well-kept secret that my grandmother had a string of suitors before my grandfather, the wealthy Prince of Genovia, fell for her. One of them was a Texas oil baron she met in Monte Carlo while she was vacationing with friends. This gentleman was so smitten that he proposed on the spot (according to Grandmère’s version of events).
    Unfortunately, it was soon discovered that the oil baron had, in romance-novel parlance, “a wife yet living”—but not before Grandmère had already spent a hefty amount of money on her trousseau.
    So she did what any shrewd Genovian girl would do, and sued him for the cost of her new wardrobe (to the tune of a hundred thousand Genovian francs).
    â€œThose gowns were handmade by Monsieur Dior! They cost two thousand dollars each,” she still says whenever the subject comes up. “What else was I to do?”
    The guy paid up. It was apparently cheaper than getting a divorce.
    Oh, ugh. All the insomnia websites say that to ensure a good night’s rest, you’re supposed to engage in soothing rituals right before you fall asleep, like taking a hot bath or sniffing lavender or drinking warm milk.
    Few advise making lists of ways your royal ancestors got revenge on their boyfriends for cheating on them, and none mentions discussing your father’s recent run-in with the law—or the fact that he did it because he was trying to get back together with your mother.
    But that’s exactly what Tina brought up later on during our conversation, and probably why I’m wider awake now than ever.
    â€œThings have actually gotten a bit better since this news about your dad broke,” Tina said, just before we were about to quit FaceTiming. “Now there’s a lot less stuff on all