Marianne Morris was unable to tell a soul why she stayed on with her husband, Dwight, in a miserable, long-sexless union. Was it because of Becky, their twelve-year-old daughter, asleep on the seat beside her? Was it because she was afraid an existence alone would be worse than what she endured now?
As she drove up to their house, tired after the nine-hour drive from Youngstown, Ohio, she realized what she did and didn’t feel and how that should make things clear for her.
What she didn’t feel was glad to be home. The white bungalow rose up before her, bereft of Christmas decorations. Unlike so many of the other houses on the street, it was dark and empty-looking. A house, not a home.
She wondered if Dwight was inside and, if he was, what he was doing. Since his aunt Adele, protector and
