At exactly 11:47 on Christmas Eve, my husband accidentally sent me a photograph of himself in a hotel bed with his mistress while I was home alone caring for our two feverish babies.

I know.

You lied.

You hurt me.

You abandoned your sick children.

You controlled me.

You made me afraid in my own home.

I could have filled the apartment with accusations.

Instead, I wrote:

You should have come home for Christmas.

I left the card beside the box.

At 4:24, I woke the babies.

Noah fussed while I dressed him in his snowsuit.

Lily watched with sleepy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I wasn’t certain whether I meant waking them or everything that preceded that moment.

At 4:31,