But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to that morning, when seventeen years of marriage still felt like a foundation made of stone and not sand.

It was 6:00 a.m. My alarm chirped, the same gentle tone it had used for a decade. Blake didn’t stir. He never did, not until his own alarm blared at 6:30. I slipped out of our bed, my feet silent on the cool hardwood floor, and padded to the kitchen to begin the ritual. I started the Colombian coffee he loved—two sugars, never cream. The rich, dark scent filled our house as it had every morning since we’d moved in twelve years ago, a fragrant promise of another predictable, comfortable day.