The kitchen at the back of the house felt heavy with heat and moisture, the kind that clings to the walls after hours of scrubbing dishes. Soap bubbles slid slowly across stainless steel, and the air carried the tired scent of detergent and metal pans that had clearly been washed far too many times that evening. When I stepped quietly through the narrow doorway from the hallway, I expected to see a housemaid finishing up after what sounded like a lively gathering upstairs. Instead, I froze in place.

Bent over the sink was my wife.

For a moment I couldn’t reconcile the woman in front of me with the one I had left months earlier when work took me across the country for a long contract.

Meredith Holloway stood with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her skin flushed red from hot water and endless scrubbing. Loose strands of hair clung to her temples where sweat had dampened them. The soft blue dress she wore was one I had bought her the previous autumn—the one she had laughed about because she said it made her feel “too elegant for ordinary days.”