But not that morning.

I could not fathom why Lawrence would do this to me.

I could not fathom the public humiliation of it, in front of our children, after a lifetime.

I sat in that leather chair feeling the floor tilt beneath me, and behind my shoulder I felt Shirley lean in, graceful and warm, her hand settling over my trembling arm, right on cue.

I know now that every soft word Shirley offered in that office was scripted, if not on paper then in the long rehearsal of her own intentions — that she had anticipated this exact moment, the widow reeling, the children confused, the room tilting, and had positioned herself to be the one calm, warm presence a frightened old woman would naturally turn toward.