Forty-seven. That is the number that keeps circling my brain like a vulture. Forty-seven times he told me he was stuck at the office. Forty-seven times I sat in church pews or choir risers, thinking I was a good wife because I gave him space to be a provider.

I really thought we had something steady after thirty years. I suppose it was steady, if you define steady by the way a clock ticks right before it breaks.

The check engine light came on last Tuesday. It was just a little orange glow, but it made me nervous. Robert is the one who handles the car maintenance, but he was gone, just like he always is on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I needed to run to the pharmacy, and I didn’t want to break down on the highway. I figured I would just pull up the navigation system on the dashboard to see if the computer had logged any mechanical alerts. I know, I know. I should have just called him. But I was tired. It was late, and I just wanted to see if the car was safe to drive in the morning.

I tapped the screen. I started scrolling through the recent history. It was just an innocent look at where we had been. I saw the grocery store, the dentist, the post office. Then I saw it. A residential address on Maple Ridge Drive. I blinked. I had never heard of that street. I kept scrolling. It was there again. And again. And again. I started counting, and my throat went dry. Every single Tuesday for eight months. Every single Thursday for eight months.

Tuesday is my Bible study night. Thursday is choir practice. I have been leaving the house at five forty-five to make sure I am on time.

Robert always kisses my forehead. He says, “Have a good time, honey.” He says, “Don’t rush back.” I used to think he was being sweet. I used to think he wanted me to enjoy my time with the girls. Now I see that he was just making sure the driveway was clear. He wanted to make sure I was gone so he could pull out of our garage and drive ten miles across town.

The GPS logs were so precise it made me want to scream. It showed the car arriving at Maple Ridge Drive at exactly six-fifteen every single time. It showed the car sitting there, idling in the dark, until nine-twenty. That gave him exactly ten minutes to get home before I pulled into the driveway at nine-thirty. He was timing it. He was timing his life around my schedule.