Our daughters had already joined their grandmother near the boarding line. I could board, return home, or send Martin alone. None of those choices could undo what he had said. I asked him whether he wanted me on the trip as I was. He replied that of course he loved me. I said love was not the question. The boarding agent began closing empty rows on her screen. The gate agent watched us quietly.

Martin finally admitted he worried his cousins would joke. They had mocked his weight as a child, and family photographs still made him feel examined. He had tried to move that examination onto me before it reached him. The explanation made sense without excusing anything. I told him he would correct the situation publicly if anyone commented, and we would discuss counseling after the trip. Until then, he would not direct my clothing or assign me a hiding place.

Robert offered to take the girls if I chose not to go. That mattered because it made my decision real rather than ceremonial. I looked at the swimsuit, my suitcase, and Martin's untouched coffee. I wanted the water park before Martin turned it into a test. I boarded for myself and the girls, not as proof of forgiveness. Martin followed after handing the coffee to a tired gate attendant who accepted it with surprise.

At Cedar Bay, our room had two beds and a sofa. I asked Martin to sleep on the sofa. He agreed without bargaining. The next morning, I wore the blue suit beneath a cotton robe and walked with the girls to the wave pool. Martin carried towels several steps behind. At the entrance, his cousin Dean lifted his phone and called for everyone to squeeze together. Then his eyes dropped toward my uncovered legs.