But I digress. I loved Mary, more than any mother ever loved a daughter. You have to understand how stressful that time was. Now, looking back on it, I wouldn’t change a thing. I know you’ve had things in the past you regret, decisions you’ve made in the heat of the moment that weren’t well thought out, right? Adopting Mary isn’t a regret, of course not. She was my golden child.

I hear the garage door opening. That means David is home first because Betsy parks on the street.

I hurry to dump the rest of my wine in the sink, rinse the coffee cup I was using as a wineglass and slide it into the dishwasher, glancing at the knives, blades facing down. I pop a Life Savers mint in my mouth—the hole prevents choking. I won’t become a tragic statistic. I should remind David that Mary choked on a piece of shrimp when she was a toddler in the same restaurant where he just sat, laughing, holding hands.

I grabbed her out of the high chair, did the Heimlich maneuver and saved her life. Does David even remember? It’s frustrating, I’m sure you understand. It’s like you’ve done everything right, raised your girl the best you can, cared for her, played by all the rules, and then suddenly, bam, she’s gone. My knees go out and I drop onto the living room couch, momentarily exhausted by the flood of memories. You care for your husband, you are his helpmate, but then he turns to someone else. When I see David walking through the door, a surge of adrenaline hits.

I scoot to the edge of the couch, gripping the fabric so tight in both hands I feel as if I could rip chunks out of it. I’m leaning forward, a lioness in her lair. African lions kill about seventy humans a year in Tanzania alone, and about two hundred fifty people total. Tragic.

“We need to talk.” I watch as my voice hits him like a brick.

He jumps. “God, Jane. Why are you sitting there in the dark? You scared me.”

Good. “We need to talk. About Betsy first.”

His tie is in his hand, his suit coat is draped over his arm. I notice a familiar, threatening scent, something that smells of orange blossoms, someone else’s perfume. I know her smell by now, of course. I know everything about her by now. I’m a quick study.

As I breathe him in, he seems relieved at my topic of choice. Betsy. Not us. And the more he relaxes, the more I would like to confront him. But I won’t. Not yet. We must focus on our child first.

David says, “I need to change. And there’s something I want to show you. Give me a minute.”