Daniel and I used to come there as teenagers. We would sit on the hood of my battered first car, eating gas-station snacks and complaining about exams, girlfriends, and parents who seemed determined to make our lives difficult.
I parked near the railing.
Below us, the city glowed through the rain.
Karen folded her hands in her lap.
For nearly a minute, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Michael wants a divorce.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“My husband sat across from me at breakfast this morning and told me he hasn’t loved me for eight years.”
I felt an immediate, irrational anger.
“He said that to you?”
“He said he had been staying because Daniel needed stability. Then because his mother became ill. Then because selling the house would be inconvenient.”
She let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Apparently, my marriage became a collection of excuses.”
I struggled to find words.
