I went still.

“Another is rebuilding after a divorce. Another hasn’t told her family she’s applying anywhere because she’s terrified she’ll fail.”

I stared at him.

“Their stories weren’t yours to tell me.”

Marco nodded.

“No.”

“But yours was.”

That landed.

He looked away.

I stepped closer.

“I’ve spent three years believing my husband worked at a hospital.”

“I consult with one,” he said. “Their social-work department refers women here when they’re trying to return to work after years of caregiving.”

“That’s not what I believed, Marco.”

“I know.”

“Do I?”

He looked at me.

“I had to book an appointment under my maiden name to find out what my own husband does all day.”

His face dropped.

That finally hurt him.

And I was glad.

Because this wasn’t simply a misunderstanding.

Then my attention caught on something beside his computer.

A small blue plastic token.

Worn smooth with age.

I recognized it.

It had once sat in a bowl at home with loose change.

“What is that?”

Marco followed my gaze.

For the first time since I’d entered the office, he looked genuinely afraid.

Not guilty.

Exposed.

“Gigi…”

I folded my arms.

“What?”

He picked up the token and rolled it between his fingers.

“This is why I started all of it.”

I waited.

“My mother used to take me to a laundromat after school,” he said.

He stared down at the blue disk.

“My father left when I was eleven. Mom had stayed home with me for years, so suddenly she needed a job.”

He swallowed.