“Yeah,” he said.

“I was thinking of going,” I said.

He looked up at me then, and something guarded came into his face.

“Why?” It was one word, but the coldness in it hurt more than I had expected it to.

For a decade I had stood beside this man at every gala and every ribbon-cutting and every awards dinner, the loyal wife smiling in the good dress, and now the idea of my presence at his celebration struck him as an intrusion, an inconvenience, a problem to be managed.

“I’m your wife,” I said quietly.