During eleven years of marriage, I told myself many things. Each one was a small but necessary lie that let me keep loving him without resentment consuming what remained of me.

By then we had two children. Our daughter, Beatatrix, was seven and observant enough to notice everything adults tried to hide. Our son, Callahan, was five and adored his father with the uncomplicated devotion small children give so freely.

I had also built a career of my own. The boutique interior-design firm I founded with my business partner, Hian, had grown from a cramped office with two desks into a respected company employing eleven people.

Eventually my earnings quietly surpassed Grantham’s income at the architecture firm. I never mentioned the difference; I didn’t want my success to make him feel diminished.

I said nothing even during the months when I paid the entire mortgage because his income had been redirected elsewhere.

My design work required frequent travel — site visits in Atlanta, client installations along the Carolina coast, buying trips to New York and Chicago.