They were not, I think, tears of fear, though I had every reason to be afraid.

They were something harder to name — the grief for the marriage arriving at last, right on schedule, in the one narrow window where I could afford to let a little of it out.

Because here is the thing no one tells you about discovering that the person beside you wants you dead: some stubborn, foolish, loving part of you goes on missing the person you thought he was, even as the real one breathes beside you in the dark.

I was not weeping for Beckett.