Will married me, I remind myself. He has children with me.

I look down at my hand. It doesn’t matter that the ring I wear once belonged to her. As a family heirloom, Will’s mother refused to let Erin be buried with it. He was honest when he gave it to me. He came clean, told me what the ring had been through and where it had been. I promised, at the time, to wear the ring in both his grandmother’s and in Erin’s honor.

“It’s just,” I say, staring at the book as if I can see straight through the cover to what’s inside, “I never knew you carried her picture around with you. That you still thought about her.”

“I don’t. I didn’t. Listen,” he says, reaching for my hands. I don’t pull back, though that’s exactly what I want to do. I want to be hurt. I am hurt. But I try to be compassionate. “Yes, I have a photograph of her still. I came across it in some of my stuff when I was unpacking. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I stuck it in the book. But it’s not what you think. It’s just that, I realized recently that it will be twenty years next month. Twenty years since Erin died. That’s all. I don’t think about her, hardly ever, Sadie. But it got me thinking, and not in a mournful way. More in a holy shit, twenty years sort of way.” He pauses, runs his hands through his hair, thinks his next words through before he speaks.

“Twenty years ago, I was a different man. I wasn’t even a man,” he says. “I was a boy. The odds that Erin and I would have actually gone through with it and gotten married aren’t great. Sooner or later we would have realized how dumb we were. How naive. What we had was just young love between two stupid kids. What you and I have,” he says, tapping my chest and then his in turn, and I have to look away because his stare is so intense it gets inside of me. “This, Sadie. This is marriage.”

And then he draws me in and wraps his arms around me and, for just this once, I let him.

He presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “Whether you believe me or not, there are times I thank God it happened this way because if it didn’t, I might have never met you.”

There’s nothing to say to that. It’s not as if I, too, can say that I’m glad she’s dead. What kind of person would that make me?

After a minute, I pull back. Will goes back to the stove. He reaches for the tongs, flips over the pork chops in the frying pan. I tell him that I’m running upstairs to change.

In the living room, Tate sits playing with Legos on the nicked-up coffee table. I say hello and he rises from the floor and squeezes me tight, calling out, “Mommy’s home!” He asks me to play with him, and I promise, “After dinner. Mommy’s going to go change.”

But before I can go, he pulls on my hand, calling out, “Statue game, statue game.”

I don’t know what he means by this, statue game. But I’m too tired for him to be pulling on me. He doesn’t mean for it to be, but his tugging is rough. It hurts my hand.

“Tate,” I say, “be gentle,” as I withdraw my hand from his and see him pout.

“I want to play the statue game,” he whines, but instead I say, “We’ll do Legos. After dinner. I promise,” seeing the castle he’s already begun to create, complete with a tower and gatehouse. It’s impressive. A mini figure sits at the top of the tower, keeping watch over the land, while three more figures stand on the coffee table, ready to attack.

“You did that all by yourself?” I ask, and Tate tells me he did, beaming proudly as I disappear up the stairs to change.

It’s dim in the house. Aside from the shortage of windows and, therefore, a scarcity of natural lighting, the house is coated with a dated wooden paneling, which makes everything dark. Gloomy. It does nothing to bolster our moods, especially on days like this, which are depressing enough as is.

Upstairs, I find Otto’s bedroom door pulled to. He’s there, inside, as he always is, listening to music and doing homework. I rap on the door and call out a quick hello. He says back, “Hi.” I wonder how Otto’s commute was to school, if he wore wet clothes all day from the rain-drenched ferry ride to the school bus waiting on the other side, if he sat with anyone at lunch. I could ask him, but the truth is I’d rather not know the answer. As they say, ignorance is bliss.

Imogen’s door is open a smidge. I peek in, but she’s not there.

I head to Will’s and my bedroom. There I stare at my tired reflection in the floor-length mirror, the weary eyes, the poplin shirt, the skirt. My makeup has nearly worn away. My skin is washed out, more gray than anything else, or maybe it’s just the lighting. Crow’s-feet sneak from the edges of my eyes. My laugh lines become more prominent each day. The joys of aging.

I’m pleased to see my hair starting to grow back to its usual length after an impulsive chop, one of those regrettable haircuts I hated. All I’d ever gotten were the dead ends trimmed. But then one day my longtime stylist went and sheared off four inches or more. I stared at her aghast when she was through, eyeing the clumps of hair on her salon floor.

What? she’d asked, as wide-eyed as me. That’s what you said you wanted, Sadie.

I told her it was fine. It’s hair. It grows back.

I didn’t want her to feel bad for what she’d done. And it is only hair. It does grow back.

But if we hadn’t moved when we did, I would have been on the hunt for a new stylist.

I yank the high heels from my feet and stare at the blisters on my skin. I step from my skirt, tossing it into the laundry basket. After sinking my feet into a pair of warm socks, my legs into a pair of comfy pajama pants, I head back downstairs, checking the thermostat on the way down. This old home is either icy cold or burning hot, but never anything in between. The furnace can no longer distribute heat properly. I turn the heat up a notch.

Will is still in the kitchen when I arrive, putting away the rest of the dinner prep. He slips the flour and cornstarch in a cabinet, sets the dirty skillet in the sink.