When I had been married to Hannah, our dining table had been scarred by a potted lemon tree she insisted on keeping indoors over winter.

I had complained about the rings it left in the wood.

I would have given anything to see one now.

“This isn’t about choosing between two women,” I said.

“I should have ended my marriage honestly before I started ours.

I didn’t.

That was wrong to both of you.”

“What happens to me?” Vivienne asked.