The first time I realized I might not know what my husband actually did for a living, I was sitting alone at our dining table in Bellmere with two plates of food going cold.
It was our fifteenth wedding anniversary.
I had made dinner myself, which was unusual enough that Adrian should have understood how much the evening mattered. I worked long hours managing community programs for a local nonprofit, and cooking had slowly become one of those domestic promises I kept moving to tomorrow.
But that night I had left work early.
I bought fresh pasta.
Made the sauce Adrian loved.
Opened the bottle of wine we had been saving.
At six thirty, he texted.
Running late. Willowcrest emergency referral. I’m sorry.
At seven thirty, I told myself medical work did not respect anniversaries.
At eight fifteen, I reheated the pasta.
At nine, I blew out one candle.
At ten thirty, I put Adrian’s plate in the refrigerator.
At eleven forty-eight, I was asleep on the couch when I heard his key in the front door.
