“Then my attorney can explain exactly what rights everybody has, and we’ll follow the appropriate legal process rather than inventing rules in the dining room.” Dorian stepped onto the porch.

“Please stay, Marisol.” And she almost did; the habit of smoothing things over was enormously powerful.

Then she remembered his voice on the phone that afternoon. I know. He had known everything that mattered, all along.

“You don’t need me to stay tonight,” she said softly.

“You need to decide whether avoiding conflict with your mother is worth having a marriage where your wife becomes the person who absorbs all of it.” She walked to her car before he could answer.

Chapter 8 — Twenty-Three Messages