“I don’t know yet. But yes, I’ll get a job. And move, if we have to.” I’m oddly at peace with the image, abruptly aware of how much I’ve been carrying—shame, secrets, anger, loss, hurt. And now, those seem to be floating away and dissolving into the air.

“We?”

“The girls and me. I love this house, but if we have to downsize, that’s fine, too.”

That rattles him. The house, and me staying home, have always been his ace in the hole. His expression changes to worry. “Rachel,” he says. “Please, honey.” He comes over and kneels at my side. Takes my hand. “You don’t really want this. Just forgive me already. Get over it.” He flinches. “I mean, put it in the past.”

But get over it is really what he means.

“Adam,” I whisper, “if one of our daughters came to you and told you her husband had cheated, that he couldn’t help himself because the other woman was just too hot...what would you tell her? What would you tell Grace or Charlotte or Rose?”

His gaze drops to the floor at the mention of their names. “I’d tell them to work on it. To stay.” He looks back up at me.

“Really? Even after he lied to her, after he’d had sex—amazing sex—with another woman while she was home teaching our grandchildren their ABCs?”

Suddenly, his eyes fill with tears. He yanks his hand from mine. “No. I’d punch the asshole in the fucking face and tell him to stay the hell away from my little girl.”

“Of course you would,” I say. “Because they deserve better. And so do I, Adam.”

He wipes his eyes. “I can do better.”

“Show me your phone,” I say.

“What?”

“You just got a text. Show it to me.”

He’s been beaten. “Give me another chance,” he says.

“No. I don’t think Emmanuelle was a fluke, and even if this was the first time you cheated, I don’t think it’ll be the last. I can’t be that sad little wife who stays home at night, hoping her husband really is working late and not screwing another woman. I have to be more than that.”

He huffs in indignation. “Well, I’m not going to be an absentee father,” he says. “I’ll want joint custody. I love them, too, you know.” Again, his eyes fill.

A wave of mourning for our old life rolls over me, taking my breath away. So, so sad that it’s gone, that lovely fantasy. “It doesn’t have to be ugly,” I say. “You’re a good father. I want the girls to see the best in you. We’ll always be their parents, and I have no intention of hating you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He’s bitter. His actions have come home to roost, and he’s not getting his way, and he’ll be angry.

I can handle it.

“Do you want me to come to the wedding?” he asks. “Or do you want to make a big announcement and make sure everyone hates me?”

“Let’s be a happy family today,” I say. “Because we have been that, and we can be again. We just can’t be married.” I pause. “But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

He swallows and wipes his eyes again. “I do. I want to see the girls do their thing.”

“Okay.”

One last time to appear as a happy family. I bite down on a sob.

Then something crashes in the girls’ room, and he stands up. “I’ll get them ready.” He gets up and heads out of our room, but pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he says, and this time, the words mean more than all the other times he’s said them.

“Me, too, Adam.”

And so my marriage ends, just an hour before Jared’s begins.

I hope Adam and I can be that couple who stays friends. That he’ll come here for Thanksgivings and Christmas mornings. That we’ll always care about each other. That we’ll be kind to each other. I’ll try for that. I hope Adam will, too.

But a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, as if a rock has rolled off my soul.

No. As if I pushed it off, and stand blinking in the sun.

Jenny

When my phone rings, I fall out of bed reaching for it, because my night table seems to have been stolen. Wait. Where am I?

Oh, right. I’m house-sitting. There is no night table. And it’s six thirty-two in the morning, people! I’m single and childless! I don’t have to get up at six thirty-two! That is the one perk of my single, childless life!

The phone is still ringing. There it is, on the chair. “Hello?”

“Jenny?”

“That’s me.”

“It’s Kimber.”

Uh-oh. I recognize that whisper...the Whisper of Cold Feet. “Hey!” I say heartily. “Today’s the big day! Are you excited?”

“I think I need to...call this off. I just... I tried on my dress, and I realized... And Jared... I don’t...” There’s a lot of squeaking going on.

“Okay, sweetie, okay. Take a breath. Is it a problem with the dress?”

“Yes,” she manages. “And everything else.”

This is not the first time a bride has fallen apart at the sight of herself in her wedding dress on the big day. Kimber may have gained weight in the ten days since her last fitting—the most common reason for wedding-day meltdowns. But I have a feeling it’s not that. “Do you want to meet me at the shop?”