Well, there it is. She has a knack. She knows my loudest nerves and how to strike them with ease and elegance. I want to drop it, honestly I do, but wanting and doing are at odds tonight. I end up saying, “I could ask the same of you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Seeking attention and validation from a college kid? C’mon, Elizabeth. It’s too soon for a midlife crisis.”

She doesn’t flinch. We’re locked in a silent standoff. Four, five seconds at least. I win when she opens her mouth. “Why don’t you take the couch tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “Because I don’t want to sleep on the couch. You’re being absurd.”

“Just for tonight,” she says. “I love you. I am so proud of you. I really am, but I am not having a midlife crisis, and I am not doing this tonight.” She doesn’t even look mad, just tired.

“You’re drunk,” I tell her.

“I’m really not.”

“He’s not some Dickens character, you know. He’s not Oliver Twist or whatever.”

She thrusts sheets against my chest. “Good night, Bobby.”

“This is stupid, Elizabeth. All I was saying is that if you’re going to start handing out our personal security codes, maybe you want to run it by me first. That’s all.”

She shrugs, spiting me by not reacting, and because yes, I want her to engage—is that so bad?—I aim for guilt. “This was my night. Is it really that hard to just give me one night?”

Elizabeth switches off her lamp, burrows under blankets, and curls up with her back turned to me. “Good night, Robert.”

She gives me nothing. I take my leave.

How did this happen? An hour ago, I was Man of the Year, and now I’m persona non grata, standing in the hallway hugging goose down in the dark, wondering if Elizabeth has lost her mind—or if she’s right. Am I being unreasonable? There really is nothing wrong with the boy, but there’s nothing wrong with communicating, either. She should have asked me before handing out the code. She should have delivered the laundry and returned to my side for one last toast.