Since he had confessed, much had become unavailable, and her life—their life—was like walking a familiar path after an earthquake, a bridge of rotted wood: questioning every step. As they fought, she tried to make sense of the feeling that they had not lived a truthful life. Margot knowing had felt like a secret in the hours that Piglet had known and he had not, and she struggled to understand how he could have deceived her for so long.
