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.

than angry.

“Was there ever a chance?”

I understood.

A chance after the photograph.

After Christmas.

After apologies.

Before attorneys became involved.

I thought carefully.

“Yes.”

Hope appeared in his eyes.

I hated what came next.

“It was at six o’clock Christmas Eve.”

He froze.

“When I asked you to stay.”

Snow fell beyond the lobby windows.

I watched him understand.

Our marriage hadn’t ended at 11:47.

That was only when I received the evidence.

Something had died earlier.

Perhaps every time I apologized after he hurt me.

Every