“I spent years remembering the tragedy,” she said, “and forgetting how much joy came first.”

I understood.

Since discovering Gregory’s secret, I had begun reinterpreting every happy memory of our marriage as evidence of deceit.

Some moments were complicated now.

Others had been genuine and deserved to remain so.

On our way out, Violet stopped beside a narrow wooden bench.

The slats were weathered but neatly repaired.

“Gregory built that after the fire,” she said.