My husband sent another woman a huge bouquet of white roses and pink peonies with a card signed “Love, Daniel,” and by one careless mistake, those flowers arrived at our house instead.

I’m sorry.” I said, “I know.” This time the apology didn’t provoke anger. He wasn’t using it to shut down my feelings. He was simply recognizing a wound he had caused.

Our marriage survived, though I don’t call that triumph. Parts of the old relationship remained; others were gone. I no longer believed Daniel incapable of betrayal, and hoped he’d stopped believing love could be separated from truth. No renewed vows, grand honeymoon, or extravagant apology bouquet; I’d expressly forbidden the last. White roses reminded me of Laura for months.