The first year was good. Genuinely good, I think, though now I hold every memory up to the light like a forger checking a bill. We bought the house on Calloway Street. He started his consultancy. I was made a partner at the firm. We were, by every visible measure, exactly what we appeared to be.
He traveled for work. That was woven into the fabric of our relationship so early that it never registered as unusual. Dallas. Singapore. Frankfurt. He always called from the hotel room, always brought something small back—a keychain, a chocolate, once a silk scarf from Zurich that I still own and cannot bring myself to discard.