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.

She had written, You looked so happy that I couldn’t make myself cross the street. I hope that was the right thing.

Joan drove us to Calvary Cemetery in the afternoon.

The grave was small and plain, under a maple tree gone orange.

MARIE ANN KOWALSKI, 1960–2016.

Someone had left a tin of lemon bars on the headstone, wrapped in plastic.

“David,” said Joan. “Every March, since the funeral.”

I stood there for a very long time.

The wind smelled of leaf smoke and cold stone.

I said, out loud, “I’m sorry I never came looking.”

And then, because it was the truth, I added, “Thank you for letting me be happy.”

I did not forgive David quickly.

For three weeks I took his calls with a flat voice and a short sentence.

But Joan said something to me on the porch that stayed.

“He’s been at that grave every March for ten years, honey. He talked to her. That man has been apologizing for a decade. He just never had anyone to say it to.”