I planned Thanksgiving with almost obsessive care. The menu printed and taped to the refrigerator. A fresh turkey ordered from a nearby farm. Muted orange and cream flowers.

Guest-room linens washed, clean towels folded at the foot of every bed. I told myself that if the house felt warm enough, maybe the marriage inside it would find its way back.

A week before Thanksgiving, our credit union called. The representative asked whether I had approved a new advance on our home-equity line.

“I haven’t approved anything.”

She paused. “Mr. Bennett submitted the request through the business portal. Because the property is jointly owned, we need both signatures.”

“How much?”