“He couldn’t handle it, Rachel,” Sylvia said.

“He told me he was breaking down under the pressure of having a wife who was never really at home.”

I looked at the small brown birthmark on Ethan’s cheek, just below his left eye, but he kept his head down, refusing to meet my gaze.

A cold, quiet stillness settled into the space between my ribs.

For four full months, from the crisp beginning of November through the damp freeze of late winter, Ethan had met me at the kitchen door every evening with a tired, proud smile.

He had told me how he spent his lunch breaks wiping down countertops, vacuuming the nursery rug, and chopping vegetables so we could have fresh meals together.