John knew I did these things, but they didn’t interest him. He played golf; he was on the fishing derby committee, which meant I wrote a check for $500 for the Scouts each spring, and John went and talked to the other dads.

And still I tried. It’s the woman’s job to steer the relationship, Caro told me (which didn’t prevent her divorce, mind you). So over dinner, I’d ask John about his day and get the customary answer . . . “Nothing exciting. Just the usual.” If I offered up what I did, his eyes would glaze over, and he’d say, “Hm?” in response. We took to reading instead of talking as we ate.

Holidays were generally wonderful, because of Juliet and the girls. I’d bake and decorate and play special music—all the things my childhood lacked out there in cold Minnesota. Juliet and her girls would help or admire, and Sadie would come home and sometimes even say something nice, like, “The house looks pretty, Mom” or “It smells so good in here.”

Times like these, I’d look at my husband and smile, thinking, Aren’t we so lucky? Two healthy children. Two healthy grandchildren. A lovely son-in-law. A beautiful home. Sometimes, I’d even say it. “Sure are,” he’d answer, and that would be it.

It was hard, feeling nothing but irritation toward him. Harder and harder with every passing year. When he retired at sixty-eight, my heart sank, because after all those years, he would be here, every day, day after day, getting in the way, pretending to try to be helpful but gumming it up enough so I’d shoo him away. He’d clean up the kitchen, which to him meant putting the dishes in the dishwasher and running tepid water into the pans. He wouldn’t wipe off the counters or empty the drain catch . . . The bits of food would just sit there until I took care of it. Inevitably, I couldn’t take the mess, so I’d start cleaning the pots and pans, and John would say, “Oh, I meant to do that! I’ll do it now.”

But of course, he didn’t. If he’d meant to do it, he would’ve done it. If he really and truly wanted to be helpful with the laundry, say, he wouldn’t have poured bleach right into the washing machine—on darks, no less—three times in a row.

“For a smart man, you sure can be dumb,” I said, trying to keep things light.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “There’s a learning curve.”

“And there’s three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes ruined because you didn’t read the instructions or listen to me.” The thrifty Norwegian in me was furious.

“I didn’t like that shirt, anyway.”

“Well, I liked mine a lot.”