This week her dreams had become vivid and she could finally answer the stupid question she’d once been asked, “Do you dream in color?” Yes, she could now say—many, many colors.

On Thursday morning she awoke at two a.m. Phil was staring at her. “What?” She snuggled closer.

“You’ve been kicking me. Tossing, turning all night.”

“Really?” A metallic guilt flooded her mouth.

“Yes, really.”

“I don’t know why.” She was astounded at her newfound capacity for white lies.

“Are you getting sick?”

“I feel fine. Really.”

“I’ll get up with Molly in the morning and send her off to school. Why don’t you try and sleep in? Obviously something has been keeping you up.” Phil rolled over and went as softly into sleep as he entered each day. Nothing was done harshly, abruptly with Phil.

Amy tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Something about the way Phil told her what he was going to do—how he would take care of it all—irritated her. He had always prided himself on how he took care of things, of her, of the kids. She was proud of him and often told him so.

Phil came from a strong line of chiseled German ancestors from whom he inherited his sense of responsibility—yet his emotions were often stashed behind a shiny armor of high ethical standards. Amy didn’t focus on what he lacked because, as she often said, we’re all missing something. Her emotion, she understood, was too much on the surface, yet it balanced the family. Whatever ability she lacked in taking care of things or providing, her husband filled. What he lacked in emotion, she filled. So for the kids, both existed.

But only for the kids, she thought before she could censor the betraying idea.

As the alarm went off, Phil rose quietly from the bed, and Amy kept her eyes closed while he took care of everything. She listened to the familiar sounds of her own home: the thump of the cabinet (Molly was removing a cereal bowl), the creak of the door (Phil was getting the newspaper off the front porch), the dishwasher opening and closing, the grind of the garage door, the slam of car doors, and finally the puff of the Toyota leaving the driveway. She snuggled deeper into her pillow.

Questions plagued her; she couldn’t find the answers, but they existed—out there, dancing to some taunting tune of the past. Why hadn’t Nick returned on the plane he was scheduled for? Why hadn’t he ever contacted her? Why had he stayed in Costa Rica? When had he come back? Why hadn’t she been able to find him, no matter how hard she tried? And, most of all, when had he met and married Eliza?