And he said, “Forget it,” and went to bed.

That is the closest my husband ever came, in eleven years, to asking me a question about my own life.

In April, Christopher told me he was leaving.

He did it well, actually.

He had clearly prepared.

He talked about how we had drifted, about how the last few years had taken something out of both of us, about how he did not want either of us to spend our forties in a marriage that had become a partnership.

He did not mention Michelle.