He nodded slowly. “We did. But I think it was too late by then.”

“Brett refused to try counseling, although I’m not sure it would have helped us either. His girlfriend was already pregnant—not that I knew it then.”

Henry’s jaw dropped, then he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “You deserve a lot better, Sylvia.”

We were both silent for a moment.

“How long were you married?” I asked.

“Ten years.”

“Do you miss her?”

Exhaling, he sat back, staring into the fireplace. “I don’t know. I don’t miss the fights or the tension. I guess I miss some things about being married, but I sure as hell wouldn’t go back to the marriage I had, not the one I had in the end, anyway.”

“Same,” I said. “There are things I miss too, but I don’t miss him. It’s more like I miss the life I thought I had, if that makes any sense. Or the life I thought I would have. But can you miss something you never had in the first place?”

“I think you can.” He looked down at his coffee again. “I know I do.”

My throat tightened up. What was the right thing to say here? I didn’t like it when people said, Oh, you’re still young and beautiful, you’ll meet someone else, because to me it was dismissive and insensitive, so I didn’t want to say it to Henry. But I didn’t want him to give up on his dreams of fatherhood either. He’d be such a great dad. “Have you thought about adopting a child on your own?”

“No. I don’t even know if a single man can adopt, and I don’t really want to be a single parent anyway.” He looked up, his expression contrite. “Sorry—I know you’re in that position right now.”

“Not by choice, believe me. So I understand.” I took a breath. “Sometimes I want to kick myself for feeling so complacent. I thought I had everything figured out, you know? I mean, by the time you get to this age, aren’t you supposed to? And now . . . here I am starting over again.”

Henry studied me for a moment. “I think it’s really brave, what you’re doing.”

“Thanks, but I don’t feel brave. I just feel . . . broken.”

“You’re not broken, Sylvia.” His voice was firm.

“No?”

He slowly shook his head. “No.”

My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to thank him for listening to me and talking openly about himself. I wanted him to set his coffee cup down, move closer to me, put his hands in my hair.

Was he thinking about it too?

“I should go,” he said, rising to his feet.

Reluctantly unfolding my legs, I stood up too. “Here, I’ll take your cup.”