I looked at those lilies, and I understood, with a clarity that steadied my hands, that I was not grieving a marriage.

There was no marriage.

There was a seven-year performance staged around a woman he had never actually seen — and the man who had staged it had just walked in and set my funeral flowers by my bed and asked how his beautiful wife was feeling.

So I told him.

I said I was nervous about the delivery.

And I sent him for shaved ice.

“How’s my beautiful wife feeling?” he said.