I thought, in the back of that car, about how much of my marriage I had spent answering.

Answering the phone the instant it rang in case it was them needing something.

Answering the group chat quickly so no one would think me cold.

Answering the little jokes with a laugh so no one would think me humorless, answering the drifting folder with my card so no one would think me stingy, answering, answering, answering, a two-year reflex of leaping to reassure a family that I was still the useful, agreeable, open-walleted presence they had decided I was for.

The buzzing in my lap was that whole reflex, demanding to be obeyed one more time, and I sat with my hands folded and did not obey it, and I learned, in twenty quiet minutes, that a ringing phone is only an emergency if you have agreed in advance that other people’s displeasure is an emergency.