I read it while standing beside the sink, the dishwasher humming behind me.

I didn’t reply immediately.

After dinner I wrote, I hope you’re well.

Trevor will call you tomorrow.

Roger answered with a photograph of a little motel tree and the words Thanks, Jo.

The sadness that came then was gentle and unexpectedly clean.

I didn’t hate the man in the photograph.

I didn’t need to invite him back either.