I walked into my company party and found my husband’s arm wrapped around a coworker’s waist, and then, in front of everyone, he told me I had never been anything more than his housekeeper.

“How long?”

He closed his eyes.

“Marie died in 2016. Her sister Joan found a letter in her things, addressed to me, and mailed it to the company. I hired a man to find you. I paid a laboratory in Cleveland to be sure. It said 99.9 percent.”

“Ten years.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known for ten years, and you sat at my kitchen table.”

“Yes.”

“You ate my brisket.”

“Ruth had passed that spring,” David said. “You told me at the church supper you would never go looking for another family. You said she was your mother, and that was that. I thought, I’ll wait. Then waiting became a habit, and habits are just cowardice with good manners.”

“So you made me your employee,” I said.

“I made a vacancy, and a recruiter found you. You got the job on your own résumé. I just made sure someone read it.”

“And Carl?”