The coffee in Patrice’s kitchen smelled burnt when the officers knocked. I was standing on the porch with my suitcase beside my leg, trying to get my fingers to work around the handle. I’d left my wife for her best friend, and I’d called the police to help me get into my own house.

I know how that sounds. I’m not asking anybody to feel sorry for me. I did the worst part myself. I just want to explain what I thought I was doing, because it’s not the same as saying I had a good reason.

The younger officer asked Patrice if she was all right. She looked past him at me.

“Daniel’s here,” she said.

That was it. No yelling, no crying. She had on her blue hospital scrubs, and one sleeve was turned inside out at the cuff. I noticed because I used to fix that for her before her early shifts.

The officer looked at me. “You called for a civil standby?”“Yes, sir.”

Patrice laughed once, not because anything was funny. “You called the police to get into the house you left?”

“I know.”

“You know what?”

I wanted to say I knew I’d hurt her. That was true, but it was not the only thing I knew. I knew I’d lost the right to walk up to that door and expect it to open. I also knew I’d been hoping, in a pretty ugly way, that she’d see the officers and feel sorry for me.

She stepped back from the doorway. “Fine. Come in. They can stay.”

So I did. The officers came in too. My suitcase stayed on the porch.

I didn’t argue. I told her I’d stay with my brother, sell the truck, and put the loan and every account in writing. She said she’d consider counseling, but I wouldn’t be moving back in. Tessa was gone from both our lives. Patrice was willing to try, not promise.

At the door, she put my work badge in my hand. Then she kept the house key.

“I’ll call you Tuesday,” she said.

This time, I didn’t ask her to say more.