I still checked the story I told myself about our marriage.

Was he someone who lied easily?

Or had he made one terrible decision under the weight of a situation neither of us understood?

I didn’t know yet.

The distinction could not be settled by a single apology.

Before bed, Miriam sent a photograph of two tiny red tomatoes.

Under it she wrote: First ones of the season.

Wish you were here to taste them.