Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.

She did not tell me which plates to buy or where the sofa belonged.

After she returned to Phoenix, she called every Sunday.

Sometimes we talked about the case.

Often we talked about recipes.

I found a counselor I trusted.

On difficult days, I practiced naming what was around me when memories of the SUV rushed back.

I also gave myself permission to decline invitations, leave crowded places, and ask friends to change plans.

Before, I had treated every inconvenience I caused as a debt.