Friday arrived with a packed overnight bag beside the stairs. Graham said he would stay at his brother's apartment for a week, not ninety days, because we both needed to calm down. I did not argue over the number. I handed him a folder containing account copies and the mediator's card. He looked wounded that I had prepared. I felt wounded that preparation was the first protection I had offered myself in years.

Our daughter, Lila, came over that evening after Graham called her from his car. I told her we were facing a disagreement about the shape of our marriage and that neither of us needed her to choose sides. She asked whether her father had cheated. I said I did not know where he had drawn that line, but trust had been crossed. I refused to make her the keeper of details she had not requested.

The house sounded enormous after she left. I nearly called Graham just to hear the familiar scrape in his voice. Instead, I moved the blue chair six inches so it faced the window. Under one leg I found a receipt from the restaurant where he and Maren had met. The date was my birthday. I photographed it, then placed it in the folder without calling anyone. I was surprised by my own restraint. The receipt did not change the choice; it merely removed one more place for doubt to hide.

On Sunday, Graham returned for clothes. He admitted he had kissed Maren twice and had minimized the dinners because he feared I would say no before he could explain. I told him permission requested after secrecy was not permission. He began apologizing, but his apology kept bending toward how lonely he had felt. I listened until he asked what would make me forgive him. I said forgiveness was not a door code. First he had to decide whether he wanted an honest marriage or simply his old life back. For once, I would not make that decision easier for him.