"You didn't have to wait up. It's just—it ran late. Richard needed the numbers."

Seven years together, and your wife Vivian is coming home smelling of wrong cologne, keeping her phone face-down, and barely glancing at the Kyoto fund jar—the honeymoon you promised each other in college, the trip her grandmother never got to take.

The evidence builds neatly toward one conclusion. Or it does, until you notice the teal pendant, the one you bought her in college, is still there.

She keeps it tucked inside her collar now. But her hand finds it every time she stops talking.