Maya looked at the floor, and something went across her face that I did not read correctly for another seven years.

“With what, David,” she said quietly.

It was not a question.

It did not even sound like an argument.

It sounded like a woman stating the weather.

I had wired the money to my mother’s account, the way I had wired money to my mother’s account every month since I was twenty-four, and it did not occur to me that night — it did not occur to me for years — to ask why my wife had to ask my mother for soup.