Over the last trimester, the architecture of our life began to groan under an invisible weight. Mark’s phone became an extension of his hand, a black mirror he guarded with paranoid intensity. If I walked into a room, he would angle the screen away, his thumb hovering over the lock button. Late-night “conference calls” became frequent, taken in the hushed privacy of the garage or the guest room.

“It’s a merger,” he told me one evening when the silence between us felt too loud. He squeezed my hand, but his skin felt cool, dry. Distant. ” The client is a nightmare. But I’m doing this for us, Rachel. For the future.”