In the eighteenth month of our marriage, which was also four months past our proper wedding and nine months past the publication of Sara’s book, something happened that I had not expected.
I stopped waiting for the other thing.
Not consciously. Not as a decision. I noticed its absence one morning in December while standing at the library window with coffee, watching the frost on the grounds and Rose toddling the length of the corridor with the determination of someone who has recently discovered locomotion and intends to use it comprehensively.
I noticed that I had been standing at the window for ten minutes and had not, once, scanned the situation for the approaching complication. Had not turned the current quiet over looking for its hidden cost. Had not assessed the stability of the m
