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 was ready.

Cole walked toward his car.

I closed the door.

That night, after the twins fell asleep, I sat beneath our Christmas tree drinking tea.

It was smaller than our Manhattan tree.

The ornaments didn’t match.

Some were expensive presents from Mother.

Others were messy construction-paper creations the children had made.

One was a tiny wooden house Noah had colored almost entirely black after discovering a marker.

It was perfect.

I remembered 11:47 p.m. two Christmas Eves earlier.

Sometimes people asked whether I was grateful Cole