None of it fit the woman I had been married to for seven years, and the wrongness of it sat in my stomach like a stone the whole way there.

That was the thing I kept snagging on, weaving through traffic I barely saw.

Rosalie was the least secretive person I had ever known.

In seven years she had never once been able to keep a birthday present hidden for more than a day; she’d give me hints until I guessed it, just to watch my face.

A woman like that does not silently endure eight months of pregnancy and a medical emergency, in the same city as the father, out of spite.

Something had gone wrong that I could not see the shape of yet — not in her, but around her, some mechanism I hadn’t accounted for.