He had traded expensive suits for an ordinary jacket and was carrying a battered paperback with notes sticking from its pages.

He told me he had been volunteering at a food-distribution nonprofit while looking for work and attending counseling regularly.

I listened, neither dismissing the efforts nor treating them as proof of transformation.

“I know you don’t owe me another chance,” he said.

“I used to think providing a beautiful house made me a good husband.

I didn’t understand how often I made you feel alone in it.”

“You didn’t only make me feel alone,” I answered.