After three years of working away from home, my husband came back with a strange new habit: every night, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, something he had never done before. I asked him, “Who taught you to sleep like that?” He sighed and replied, “If you pretend you don’t know, you can keep being my wife.” I didn’t argue. The next day, I called my lawyer because I already had proof of what he had been doing for those three years.

A weekend.

Three days.

Once for Christmas.

But never long enough for our marriage to nb feel normal again.

I told myself it was temporary.

We talked every night.

At least, in the beginning.

He sent photographs from airports.

Hotels.

Construction sites.

Client dinners.

I sent pictures of our house.

The garden.

The dog we had before he died.

Birthday cakes I bought for myself.

At first, Christopher apologized every time he missed something.

Then the apologies became shorter.

Then they disappeared.

My thirty-fourth birthday passed with a delivery of flowers from his assistant.

My thirty-fifth came with a text at 11:47 p.m.

Happy birthday.

Crazy day.

Love you.

My thirty-sixth came three months before he finally returned.

He called the next morning.

“I thought it was tomorrow.”

I laughed.

Then cried after we hung up.

Still, I waited.

Because when you have loved someone for years, disappointment can start looking like patience.

Christopher returned to San Jose on a Friday evening.

I had cleaned the house twice.

Changed the sheets.

Bought his favorite wine.

Cooked the pasta he used to ask for every anniversary.

When his car pulled into the driveway, I cried before he even stepped out.

He looked different.

Thinner.

More expensive.

His hair was shorter.

His clothes were sharper.

He smelled unfamiliar.

I hugged him.

He held me tightly.

Too tightly.

Then kissed my forehead.

“Finally home.”