He had not said she is not a stranger, she is my wife. He had sat there and let the word stand, let his mother define Rafaela out of the family in the same breath she used to leave her in the rain, and by his silence he had agreed with it.

So Rafaela was only holding him to his own choice.

He wanted to be her husband now, in this room, now that the word carried leverage — now that being married to her might be the thing that saved him.

But a marriage is not a status you can pick up when it’s useful and set down when it’s inconvenient.

He had set it down in the car that morning, had chosen his mother’s approval over his wife’s dignity, had let her become a stranger the moment being married to her cost him something.

He did not get to pick it back up now that being married to her might cost him less. An hour ago, I was a stranger. She let the words hang there, and she saw in his face that he understood: she was not being cruel.