“Every single day,” Sylvia said, nodding firmly.

“While you were working your twelve hour shifts at the hospital or running off to your mother’s house to fuss over her, Ethan was sitting at his office desk, panicked because the house was a mess.”

She pulled her leather handbag tighter against her ribs, her knuckles white against the dark strap.

“He could not handle it, Rachel,” Sylvia said.

“He told me he was breaking down under the pressure of having a wife who was never fully at home.”