“For me, too,” I said. “I guess I hoped we could put it behind us today, of all days, but apparently not.”

He poked at his ruined waffle. “I want to.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t seem like you’re trying that hard.”

“Pardon me if this apocalypse was a bit too complicated to pencil into a timetable,” he crabbed.

“Nick, I love you,” I said. “But let’s get real. It’s Christmas and this house feels like a mausoleum. If you’re not going to talk to me about it, or you’re not going to talk to me, period, then what the hell are we even doing here?” I shoved away my plate. “Maybe I should go to Iowa. Or you should go to Cornwall. When was the last time you spent Christmas Day with your mom?”

Nick blinked. “You’re kicking me out?”

“No!” I said, exasperated. “I’m making a suggestion. Any suggestion at all. This isn’t going great, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Nick pulled on his hair. “What kind of man leaves his wife on their first married Christmas?”

“Someone whose wife told him to,” I said. “Look, things suck here right now. And I know you’re always pulled in two directions on holidays, so let this be one time you’re not. Consider it a Christmas gift.”

“But what are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “What have I been doing for the last few weeks, besides decorating? It’ll be like that, but without you snoring on your office couch.”

He looked sad. “I would really love to see her.”

“I’m not stopping you,” I said. “Get out of here, already. Go.”

He did.

*  *  *

“What’s the time?” yawned Marta.

I glanced at my watch. “Eleven forty-five,” I said. “Not long now.”

I had to give Marta credit. The only New Year’s Eve on which my dad stayed awake past midnight, we’d forced the issue with a 10:45 p.m. dinner reservation, but Marta, well into her eleventh decade, had been remarkable. She’d noodled around on her phone, given a lot of feedback to the various guests on Graham Norton (she did not care for the cut of Will Ferrell’s jib), and even hummed along to the Bryan Adams concert that would bookend the fireworks over London. All while avoiding asking me anything overtly personal.

“Why the hell is your husband at a party without you?” she asked. “You’re too young to be spending New Year’s Eve watching telly with an old woman.”

I guess it was only a matter of time.

“He’s…” I searched for a lie. “He needed to stay down in Cornwall for scheduling reasons.”

“So he’s avoiding you,” Marta said. “I don’t miss a trick.”