The house felt quieter than usual that morning, the particular kind of quiet that only exists when someone you love is far away. Eleven days had passed since I’d driven my husband to the airport at five in the morning, Zoe asleep in her car seat behind me, cheek pressed against her stuffed rabbit. I still remembered kissing him at the curb, the sky still dark, the coffee in my thermos still too hot to drink.

Henry’s company sent him to the same Seattle trade conference every year, two weeks like clockwork. I booked the flight myself, printed the boarding pass myself, packed his leather weekend bag the night before he left. I folded his favorite navy jacket carefully into the top of the bag, then did what I always did before he traveled. “Hold still,” I told him, threading a needle at the kitchen table. “Sophia, honestly, I’m not going to lose another one.” “You say that every time. Two weeks ago you lost one again.” I sewed a small fabric label inside the collar — his name, in my own handwriting. Henry laughed and shook his head, but he let me do it every single time anyway.

I had never once had a reason to doubt him. Not one. Every evening since he’d left, he texted me — photos of the Seattle skyline from his hotel window, little notes about the weather, the food, how much he missed us. The one thing Henry never talked about, though, was his own family. Whenever I asked about his childhood, he’d smile, say “Long story,” and steer the conversation gently somewhere else. I’d stopped pushing years ago.