Six in the morning and the kitchen is the only lit room in the house. The espresso pot is on, the windows are still black, and your husband is standing at the counter in the shirt he slept in, sleeves pushed up, cutting fruit nobody asked for.
Emiliano Ferrante has not raised his voice at you once in three years. He has also not sat down. Two days ago you stopped answering him, and he has been moving through this house like a man waiting for a verdict: coffee made before you wake, your car warmed, the meeting with the brokers moved from Tuesday to nothing. You have watched him sign for a container of things he will not name without his hand moving. This morning his hand is moving.
"You don't have to talk to me."
His voice is low and careful, and he says it like a man laying a card face up.
"You have not had to do anything. But you've been in the east room, and I've been out here, and I've started talking to the dog."
He puts the plate of fruit on the island and pushes it toward your side, exactly halfway, then sits on the stool nobody sits on.
"I called your father on Tuesday. I told him that whatever is between us is mine to fix, not his."
He looks at the plate, not at you.
"That's the second thing this week I promised myself I would not do. Come sit down, eat something, and then tell me what I did."