She had started feeling unconnected to her body. Her heart and soul seemed to be in a completely different place than her bones and skin. She ached to really be touched, in a way she could feel it. But his hand on her skin was rough, hurtful—harsh and abrasive, as if making her flinch was more the point than giving her pleasure.

Was this what marriage was like? Once the thrills and excitement of early courtship were over, was this what everyone did? She couldn't even remember the last time he had wanted to have sex with her. Usually he slept with a wall of pillows between them, flinching when she'd run a tentative hand down his spine.

Before they got married, he had told her he wanted to be a father. But after the wedding, she heard only how much he didn't want to be a parent, wanted her to keep her figure, wanted her all to himself.

But right now, here they were in their bed, having sex. There was no eye contact; he stared at the headboard, and Lily felt tears come to her eyes. The friction hurt. It was as if he had forgotten he was inside a woman, inside the softest place in her body. She gripped the rails of the headboard, bracing herself.

Lily's tears began to leak out because she used to think Maybe tonight we'll make a baby, maybe I'll get to be a mother. She cried because this felt like destruction, not creation.

Lily remembered that now, shivering at Maeve's table. She closed her eyes. She had a collection of worst moments in her life, and that was one of them—the night she had conceived Rose. She had wept inconsolably afterward.

Lily remembered driving over to Maeve's house the next day. She hadn't told her grandmother that she was upset. By then, she was practiced in the lie: smiling, laughing, acting as if everything was great. She was always “fine.”

“How are you, darling?” Fine.

“Would you like some tea?” Yes, that would be fine.

“How was your weekend?” Just fine, thank you.

It was always worst after a fight. In fact, after one of the worst yelling matches—with Lily losing it totally, screaming so loudly she hurt her throat, and Edward looking at her with the smug victory he always seemed to feel when he made her that angry—she felt like she was about to collapse. He huffed into bed, covers pulled over his head. Her chest hurt, and she felt afraid.

She was young. Her family had no history of heart trouble. This was just stress, she told herself. She took her own pulse, but she was too upset to count her heartbeats.

Not wanting to overreact, she went into the bedroom. “Edward,” she said.

He didn't reply.

“I think I might be having a heart attack.”