Maybe because thirty-one years of trust doesn’t just disappear in one evening. Even when it should.
I turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.
I didn’t sleep.
I lay on my side of the bed facing the wall. David lay on his side facing the other wall. Neither of us moved. Neither of us pretended to be asleep very well.
At two in the morning, I got up and went to the kitchen and sat in the dark at the table where we’d eaten breakfast together for three decades.
I thought about the day we got married. In my parents’ backyard, under a rented tent, in a July heat wave. David sweated through his shirt before the ceremony even started, and my mother made him change into my father’s. It was two sizes too big. He wore it anyway.
I thought about the day Emma was born. David holding her in the hospital, crying so hard the nurse had to take her back.
