She is almost thirty-one years old. She has no children, no parents. This time last year she was certain that her husband was her family. Their colleagues always commented on how perfectly matched they were, which was meant as a compliment, and also the politest way of saying neither could have found anyone better. It was true, though: they seemed like a good couple, and there were times when they really were—if only she’d had the capacity for happiness. But she also knows that the fabric of their marriage had worn thin in many places. All it needed was one sharp tug for it to tear.
