There’d been a simple arithmetic to life, two and two equaled four. But slowly, as years went by and the kids got older, started school, she often couldn’t make things compute. He was still sleeping beside her at night, unless he was on a midnight tour. They were still doing steak on Sundays, pizza on Fridays. They still walked the same routes around the house, doing the same things they’d always done, more or less, but lately she felt a poverty of something—happiness, she supposed—deep inside her ribs, the place were she used to feel her joy spill over. What they’d told each other when they
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