I crept upstairs without turning on the lights.

In our master bedroom, someone slept beneath the comforter on Evelyn’s side of the bed.

Same side she had used for almost three decades.

Same outline beneath the blankets.

“I’m home, sweetie,” I whispered.

No response.

Evelyn could sleep through thunderstorms.

I removed my shoes, slipped beneath the covers, and within minutes exhaustion took over.

At dawn, I rolled toward her.

Reached out.

And touched a broad shoulder.

My eyes opened.

A man in his late thirties stared back at me.

For one frozen second, neither of us moved.