I’ll be right up,” I promised John after Hannah had gone.

He did not look at me. “Take your time. I’ve got some work to do.”

Again? But how could I complain? It was my fault he had to work so late.

I drifted through the downstairs. Miss Hannah had left our house as tidy as her own, all the toys picked up, the counters wiped free of crumbs. I transferred a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer. Added soap to the dishwasher. Adjusted the thermostat.

My phone buzzed with a message from Jo. Call me!!!, the giddy string of emojis more like Amy than Jo.

I smiled wistfully. Something had made my sister happy—something besides her usual fabulous life in New York. I wanted to hear all about it. But not tonight. Hard enough to pretend to myself that everything was all right. I’d never fool my sister.

I texted her a brief update on Momma and then—feeling guilty for dodging Jo’s call—sent her a picture of me in my dress.

I couldn’t wait to take it off.

I went upstairs to check on the twins. They looked so sweet in the dim glow of the night-light, like cherubs, like sugarplums. “God bless, my babies,” I whispered. “Sleep tight.”

John’s light was on at the end of the hall, but I didn’t go to his office.

I peeled out of my clothes, the hated shapewear like a cicada chrysalis, pale brown and shiny, the corpse of my pre-baby body. I stuffed it into the hamper and got into bed, lying with my eyes closed as John came in and turned on the shower. He always showered at night. I loved the way he slipped into bed, smelling like soap and clean, male skin.

He kissed my cheek.

“John?”

“Mm?” He moved down to my neck.

“Is everything all right?”

“Mm.”

“I just wondered . . .” I squirmed. His mouth was hot and gentle on my breast. “You seemed kind of upset earlier.”

“Honey, I’m fine.”

Of course he was fine. When you’re the oldest child, you’re always fine, because there’s always somebody younger than you who’s not fine and needs attention.

“It’s just . . . We never talk anymore.”

“We talk,” he said a bit defensively.

“About our schedules. Or the kids. Not about us. Not about our feelings.”

“Honey, I’m a guy. We don’t sit around discussing our feelings.”

“We used to,” I reminded him. “We used to talk for hours.” About everything and nothing at all. About our hopes and fears, our plans and our dreams, about where to go out for dinner or what was on TV. Or we could sit in silence and be perfectly in tune.

He sighed and rolled away, punching his pillow to stuff it under his head. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”