“Actually, start with that. I’d love to hear the sentence that makes THAT better.”

Marco closed his eyes.

Then someone knocked.

Before either of us could respond, a woman stepped inside.

She looked around my age, maybe slightly older, and held a folder against her chest so tightly the paper bent.

The second she saw Marco, she shook her head.

“No.”

Marco blinked.

“No what, Diane?”

“I’m not going.”

He checked the clock.

“Your interview is in two hours.”

“I know.”

“Sit down.”

“Marco…”

“Sit.”

His tone wasn’t harsh.

It sounded familiar.

Like this was an argument they’d had before.

Diane lowered herself into the chair.

Marco looked at me.

I folded my arms.

“I’m not leaving.”

He nodded once.

“Okay.”

That answer surprised me.

For three years, whenever I asked Marco about work, he kissed my forehead and said, “Please, dear. I spend all day dealing with work. Can I have one place where I don’t have to talk about it?”

For the first time, he wasn’t asking me to stay outside.

He turned back to Diane.

“What have you been doing for the last 23 years?”

She stared at him.

“Nothing.”

Marco didn’t react.

“Again.”

“I stayed home.”

“Again.”

Her brow tightened.