For a long moment I didn’t think she would end up telling me, but when she finally turned to me, I saw a fierceness in her eyes that I always knew she had but until now had never tapped into. “Robin,” she began, “I’ve done something horrible . . .”

I didn’t speak, and I didn’t judge, while she dropped her darkest sin at my feet so that I could help her pick up the pieces.

By the time I got home, Grant was already cooking dinner and the house was unusually quiet, except for the sizzle of mesquite sauce bubbling on the stove. The scent of barbecue chicken and roasted potatoes wafted across the house, making my mouth water. Wearing oven mitts, he glanced up at me and smiled. For once it felt good to be home.

“Dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes. And Collette’s been fed and is playing with Lucas in his room. So far no one’s crying or fighting, so I’m guessing they’re entertaining themselves okay.”

“Wow, look at you, Mr. Mom. Home all day with the kids—is your sanity still intact?”

He erupted in a belly laugh. “I don’t know how you do it every day, but I love you for it. You’re tougher than I ever gave you credit for, babe.”

Even that tiny acknowledgment felt like huge praise. I never expected or sought gratitude for what I did as a mother, as a wife, as a homemaker, but sometimes a person simply needed to be appreciated. Finally Grant understood that.

“Did you hear that Lily is moving away?” I watched for his reaction. Nothing but a surprised raise of his eyebrows.

“Really? Good for her.” He seemed unmoved by the news.

Our gazes locked in a shared understanding that with Lily gone, we could distance ourselves from the mistakes. Leave the past in the past.

I grabbed my Burberry bag and brought it to the kitchen. “I have something I need to show you.” It was silly, I knew, but it was monumental for me. Everyone had their own vices; now I was facing and defeating mine. It would be hard, probably one of the hardest acts of discipline I’d do in my adult life, but it needed to be done. No one would really understand the power of my impulse unless they had walked in my shoes—my overpriced Gucci impulse-buy shoes. But I was going to rectify it, smother that urge, starting tonight.

I found my wallet, slipped the credit card out, and held it up for Grant to see. Opening the junk drawer, I grabbed a pair of scissors and placed the card between the blades.

“Drumroll, please!”

Grant obliged, making a trilling sound with his tongue and rapping his fingers on the countertop.

With a grand flourish I guillotined the evil plastic and let the halves fall to the floor.