“We are doing wonderfully,” I laughed, and I meant it completely, with my whole heart, and we walked together into the bright, sunny kitchen, the very kitchen where, six months earlier, I had stood weeping in silence while my husband lied to another woman through a phone he had forgotten to hang up.

It felt like a different room now, in a different life.

I settled Maya into her high chair with a slice of apple, and poured two cups of coffee, and my mother took a seat at the island.

“Have you heard from him?” she asked, gently.

“His attorney emailed yesterday,” I said, “about the supervised visitation schedule for next month.” My voice, I noticed, was completely free of bitterness; the anger had burned clean away months ago, leaving only a settled, peaceful distance.

“He included a note asking whether I’d be open to speaking with him directly.