Aaron poured water. Drank. Set the glass down. "I want to go to the school this afternoon even though it's Saturday and the lot will be empty. I want to stand where we stood. I want to say out loud what I couldn't say then."
Simone's almond eyes searched his face. "All right."
They left Lily with Aaron's sister, who had come up for the weekend without being told why and had understood anyway. The Brookhaven lot was vacant except for a janitor's truck. Yellow buses slept in a distant row behind a fence. The flagpole ropes clinked softly. Late-afternoon light — the same angle as a year ago, or near enough to hurt — laid itself across the courtyard.
Aaron stood where he had stood when Lily ran into his arms. Simone stood where she had stood when the teacher asked about the list. For a moment neither spoke. The emptiness made the memory louder.
Aaron said, "A year ago I found out my wife had put another man on our daughter's pickup list. A year ago I learned the architecture of a lie I had been living inside without knowing the walls were hollow. A year ago I wanted to burn the life down and salt the lot."
Simone's face was wet. She did not wipe it.
Aaron continued. "I did not burn it. I do not know if that makes me wise or weak. I know that Lily still runs to me. I know that you still make coffee like someone who intends to stay. I know that trust is not a switch. It is a practice. I am still practicing. Some days I fail. Some days I look at you and see the green dress at the fundraiser and the hospital room and the woman who lied and the woman who told the truth when the clipboard forced the door. All of you. I am choosing the marriage that contains all of you, not the fantasy that contained only the best."
Simone stepped closer. "I will spend the rest of my life earning a place in that choice. Not as debt. As devotion. If you ever decide the practice costs more than it gives, I will not call you cruel for stopping."