had been saving for years.

Arthur and I stayed married.

Not because he apologized.

Because he changed.

There is a difference.

The next New Year’s Eve, we hosted dinner again.

Only six people.

My parents.

And Charles, who flew up from Florida carrying a bottle of sparkling cider because he had quit drinking years earlier.

Arthur cooked.

He oversalted the pork.

Nobody complained.

At eleven fifty-nine, snow drifted beyond the windows.

Arthur reached for my hand.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Perfect.”

At midnight, fireworks opened above Chicago.

A year earlier,