Poor Tristan, though.

When you lived here, Zachary’s mother answered warmly, none of these ugly things ever happened.

Laughter rolled through the house.

Mom, Tristan asked, loud enough to carry, when are you coming back to live with Dad?

And no one — not one person in that laughing, murmuring chorus — told him not to ask.

I sat on the edge of my own bed, in my own locked bedroom, and listened to my husband’s family plan my replacement out loud, and felt, of all things, calm.

Chapter 7 — Where Are We Going