I opened my phone’s settings, and I found the blocked-callers list, and my chest tightened as I scrolled it, because there, listed dozens of times, was Rosalie’s number.

I stared at that list for a long time.

Each entry was a call she had made, on some particular day, for some particular reason, from some particular place — sitting in a doctor’s parking lot, perhaps, with three positive tests on the passenger seat; or standing in the lobby of my building, twelve weeks along, an ultrasound photo in her purse, being told by a security guard that she could not go up.

Each of those calls had been a hand reaching toward me across the wreckage of our marriage, and each had struck the wall I had built and slid, unheard, into a list on a phone I never checked.