"I can do that," Marcus said.
"You say that now," Nia said. "In three months, when the shame gets loud again, you'll want to hide. That's when the real work starts."
He set the glass down. "Then that's when you'll remind me. And I'll hate it. And I'll do it anyway."
Nia drank. The wine tasted like dust and celebration that had arrived late. "There's something else. I need an apology that isn't about outcomes. Don't apologize for the short sale. Don't apologize for losing the job. Apologize for deciding I was a project to manage."
Marcus looked at her—really looked—and she watched him search for language that wasn't a defense.
"I'm sorry I managed you," he said. "I'm sorry I confused your ambition with a reason to exclude you. I'm sorry I let Amara live inside a secret and taught her to call it a surprise. I'm sorry I made Simone a partner in our crisis because I wouldn't let you be one. I'm sorry I stole months of honesty from a marriage that had earned better. I was afraid. I turned fear into a plan and called the plan love. It wasn't love. It was control wearing love's coat."