It would have been easy to blame Iris, but he had begun to recognize how much energy he spent assigning blame.

In an old drawer he found a photograph of their wedding day.

Iris stood beside him in a simple ivory dress, smiling with such trust that he looked away.

He remembered the reception: the cake had arrived late, the music system had failed, and Iris had saved the evening by persuading everyone to dance without music while the staff fixed the speakers.

He had loved that version of her.