He had done all of those things.

But it was radically incomplete, because it left out the two years he had spent, in secret, carrying the same terrible suspicion I carried, alone, unable to speak it to anyone, trapped between loyalty to his mother and loyalty to his dead father’s integrity.

Eight years of marriage, and I had never once suspected the burden he was carrying, because he had never let me see it, because in his family you did not let anyone see the cracks.

I did not forgive him for the laptop, or the years of contempt.