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.

cried so hard I nearly dropped Lily.

Dad took her as my knees weakened.

I sat on the stairs while Mother wrapped her arms around me.

“I’m sorry,” I kept repeating.

“Stop apologizing for surviving your own marriage.”

I leaned against her shoulder.

“I don’t know what happens now.”

“You don’t have to know this morning.”

But by eight, the next stage had begun.

Cole sent a photograph of the empty nursery.

COME HOME.

Two minutes later:

We can fix this.

Then:

I will forgive what you’ve done if you