With Ken home, our little family bustles with domestic … okay, it’s not bliss. But it’s something, and it’s ours. I call Eli down to set the table that’s been in this dining room since before I was born. We use my grandmother’s china. I set out the food, pour myself a glass of grape juice for the blessing, light the candles, and say the prayer.

“Don’t you usually have wine?” Ken asks me when I lift the grape juice.

I’m surprised enough to splash a little juice on the white tablecloth. I do have wine when he’s not here. “Sometimes, but—”

“Why don’t you have a glass? You worked hard on this delicious meal for us. You should have a little treat. And I wouldn’t mind a glass, myself. For tradition, right?”

I rarely drink around him, and Ken never drinks at all. Not a beer when he’s grilling, not a cocktail in front of the TV, no champagne at New Year’s, and certainly no wine for Shabbat. In the worst times, when I struggled to get through a single day without obliterating myself, he always knew when I was stoned but never said a word. When I got myself off the pills, he knew that, too, and also never said a word. So here we are now, never saying a word to the other about much of anything, because if you can’t talk to each other about something as vast and important as addiction, how can you really talk about anything that matters?

“Go get it,” he encourages.

Eli and I share a look at Ken’s joviality. I get a bottle from the built-in rack over the fridge. They’re waiting for me to return before we eat, because that’s good manners. I pour myself a scant glass of ruby liquid. When Ken lifts his glass, I pour some wine into it. I stumble over the blessings I should know by heart, and the peace I usually feel at the Shabbat table eludes me. Ken keeps his held high even after the prayer, waiting for the two of us to join. I lift mine again, and Eli follows with his after a second.

“To family.”

Eli and I echo his words. My husband reaches for my hand. He squeezes it. He smiles at me. I say the prayer over the braided challah. The first piece I tear off and dip in salt usually goes to Eli. Tonight, I hand it to Ken.

“Amazing,” Ken says. “Delicious.”

He digs into the chicken and mashed potatoes and eats with enthusiasm. He’s vibrating with good humor, effusive and chatty. He doesn’t actually touch the wine beyond that initial sip, but I might otherwise think he’s drunk. I’ve seen my husband be funny before, and charming, but this is … a lot.

The doorbell rings.

“Who could that be?” Ken says in a tone that clearly says he knows exactly who it is.

The delivery men struggle with the enormous television set, but Ken directs them downstairs into the basement rec room. They set it up in record time and are gone in about half an hour. Eli’s excited. I am confused.