I felt the floor of the world tilt beneath my feet.

Because last year, my husband had held my hand in fertility clinics.

He had held me while I sobbed over another failed cycle.

He had looked into my eyes and sworn to me that it was just the two of us, together, against the whole world.

And the entire time, another woman had been carrying and then losing his child, and he had gone from her grief to mine and back again, and comforted us both, and lied to us both, in the same weeks, with the same face.

“Get out of my house,” I said.