I did not see everything that happened in Mike after that, but I have known him a long time, and I could read the shape of it from across a lawn.

For five years, he had lived inside a story in which he was the one who had been failed.

I know this because I had heard, over those years, through Rachel and through the ordinary leakage of a small city, the version of our marriage that Mike carried around.

In it, we had been unable to have children, and the strain of it had broken me, and I had become fragile and difficult and impossible to live with, and he had endured it as long as any man could before finally, regretfully, letting go.

It was a tidy story.