At 2:47 in the morning, while my seven-year-old daughter was in critical condition in the ICU, my husband saw my calls and rejected them because he was in the Bahamas with the woman he had told me not to worry about

know what to say to him.”

“That’s between you and him.”

She entered the living room.

I heard fragments.

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“Yes.”

“No.”

“She told you.”

A long pause.

Then her voice broke.

“No, David. Don’t you dare say that.”

More silence.

“Because I stood beside her coffin.”

I stopped packing.

Elaine began crying.

“Yes. Your daughter.”

Silence.

“No, I’m not lying.”

Then louder:

“Your wife called you fifty-one times!”

I heard her say, “No. You listen to me.”

I went upstairs.

Some conversations were no longer mine to participate in.

Twenty minutes later, Elaine found me folding Lily’s sweaters.

“He says he didn’t understand.”

I kept folding.

“He says he thought you were manipulating him into ending the trip.”

I placed another sweater in the box.

“He says you two had been fighting so much that he assumed—”

“Elaine.”

She