I don’t know why I asked the next question. I think I was running on some kind of autopilot where you just keep talking because stopping means you have to absorb it. I asked if they kept photos on file for account authorization.

She said yes, every account has a pickup photo on file. I asked if she could send me the one for Ridgewood. She was quiet for maybe three seconds and then she said, “Emailed it.”

My husband. A woman. Two children. Standing in front of a church. He had on that blue tie, the one I gave him for our anniversary three years ago, and he was smiling in that big relaxed way he only smiles when he doesn’t know someone is watching him. The woman was pretty. She looked happy. The kids were small and dressed up and one of them was looking at the camera and one of them was looking at Marcus. The church was 25 minutes from our house. Twenty-five minutes.

I set the phone down on the counter very carefully. I don’t know why I was so careful about it. I just was.

Here is the thing about Marcus that I need you to understand, because it matters. He is not a dramatic person. He is not flashy or loud or the kind of man who disappears for weekends or comes home smelling like someone else’s perfume. He coaches youth soccer on Saturday mornings and he remembers to replace the toilet paper roll and he calls his mother every Sunday. For sixteen years I thought I was lucky. I used to actually say that to people. I would say, “I got lucky with him.” I said it at my cousin’s bridal shower two years ago and everyone laughed and agreed and I meant it completely.