I tried to call him most days, but his phone usually went unanswered. I’d taken the children to see him several times, only to spend the entire weekend at Jürgen’s villa in the nearby town of Nordhausen, waiting for a break in his work schedule that never came. At some point, I’d started to learn more about my husband’s life through Karl, via Lydia, than from him directly.

He was busy, but that wasn’t why he avoided my calls. He was stressed, but that wasn’t why he didn’t make time to see me and the children. Jürgen was withdrawing from us, and it was time to force a confrontation.

Lydia and I approached the host at the door, and he greeted us warmly as we introduced ourselves. After checking a seating chart, he led the way to our tables.

“You’re here, Mrs. zu Schiller,” he said politely, holding out a chair for Lydia at a table near the back of the room.

“Hello, Mrs. zu Schiller,” Aldo Radtke said, smiling warmly at her from his own seat, a few chairs down from Lydia. “And Mrs. von Meyer Rhodes. Congratulations.” A decade after that dinner party at Lydia’s house, Aldo was no longer fresh-faced and anxious, but he still seemed sweet. He was a key member of Jürgen’s team, one of only a handful of colleagues who was invited to join us that evening.

“Hello, Aldo.” I smiled, nodding at him. “Thank you.”

But Lydia seemed confused. She looked from Aldo to her seat, her expression darkening when the waiter indicated I should follow him to another table.

“You are a guest of honor, Mrs. von Meyer Rhodes. You have a reserved seat at the front.”

Lydia was not a woman accustomed to sharing the spotlight, and that night, she was watching someone else bask in it. I gave her an apologetic shrug, and she forced a smile and nodded, as if permitting me to go to my own seat.

The head table was set just in front of a heavy red velvet curtain, facing the rest of the room like a bridal table. Trails of ivy hung along the front, and bright arrangements of winter flowers were set between pairs of seats—lily of the valley and pansies and coral bells. The sweet scent rising from the arrangements reminded me of Adele’s garden.

I took my seat alone, feeling awkward and on display, and finished a glass of champagne before Jürgen joined me. There were strands of silver along his hairline now, new lines around his eyes, and his tuxedo hung on his gaunt frame. Every time I’d seen him that year, he looked more beaten down. Now, as he sat and shuffled his chair closer to the table, there was barely disguised distress in his gaze.

“What is it?” I whispered.