"Then I thought about our house."
"Us."
"Yes."
"And?"
"I felt relieved."
That loosened something.
"Relieved?"
"Very."
"Because you didn't marry him."
"Because I became me."
Her hand found mine beneath the blanket.
"I don't know who I would've been with Peter."
"Maybe happy."
"Maybe."
I appreciated that she didn't insult him to comfort me.
"But I know who I became with you."
I squeezed her hand.
"Do you wish we had children?"
That question seemed unrelated.
It wasn't.
Amy breathed slowly.
"Sometimes."
"Me too."
"Do you regret stopping?"
"No."
"Neither do I."
She moved closer.
"That's another thing I was afraid you'd judge me for."
"I did judge you for a while."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
We lay quietly.
Then Amy said, "Do you know why I finally stopped being afraid you'd leave me over the baby decision?"
"Why?"
"Because you apologized without asking me to change my mind."
I closed my eyes.
I remembered that conversation.
I had cried.
Actually cried.
Not noble movie tears.
Ugly grief.
I had told her I was sorry for making her body feel like a referendum on my happiness.
At the time, I thought I was apologizing for one argument.
Apparently, she had remembered it for years.
"Marriage is weird," I said.
"Very."
"You remember things I don't."
"You remember restaurant cake from March."
"Important information."
Amy laughed softly.
Then fell asleep.
The next morning was our actual anniversary day after the dinner.
Technically.
We woke late.
Amy had a headache.
I made coffee.
Neither of us behaved dramatically.
That mattered.
No cinematic sunrise.
No passionate reaffirmation.
No sudden transformation.
Just Saturday.
Laundry.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Two people slightly emotionally hungover.
At eleven, Amy came into the kitchen holding her phone.
"What?"
"Peter messaged me."
My stomach tightened.
"When?"
"Last night."
"During dinner?"
"Nine forty."
"What did he say?"
She handed me the phone without me asking.
I read it.
Peter: I know tonight is your anniversary from what you mentioned when we met. I hope telling Daniel goes okay if you decided to. No need to respond. I genuinely wish you both well.
I read it twice.
Amy watched me.
"You told him you were going to tell me?"
"At coffee."
"Why?"
"He asked whether I ever would."
"And you said?"
"That I planned to tell you on our anniversary."
I felt strange knowing Peter had been aware of the confession before I was.
But the message itself did not cross any line.
"What do you want to do?"
Amy looked surprised.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"I don't know."
"Do you want to respond?"
"Part of me wants to say thank you."
"Then say thank you."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
She looked confused.