Ethan had driven through the night once because I had a short window at home and he wanted us to have breakfast together.

He had learned how to braid Noah’s costume cord after I gave up.

He could make our son laugh with a voice so ridiculous that even Margaret sometimes forgot to object to it.

I had married that man.

I had also married the man who had sent the message.

I could no longer preserve one by refusing to look at the other.

“I’m sorry,” he said.