Twenty past two in the morning, and the kitchen is down to the light over the sink and the green dot on the radio charger. Your wife comes in still in the navy uniform with the reflective stripes on the sleeves and sets the handheld on the counter the way she leaves it after every shift: antenna up, knob at ten.
She does not take the coat off. She stands at the end of the counter with both palms flat on it and looks at you the way she looks at a scene she has already walked into.
"I broke the rule."
Flat. Radio voice, the one she uses on families.
"Not a repeat. Five months. It's Maeve."
The refrigerator hums. Her hands stay on the counter.
"You said no one from our life. I heard it when you said it. I've been standing in the bay since October looking for the version of this where you don't have to hear it from me, and there isn't one."
She hooks the second chair out with her foot and leaves it empty between you.
"Ask me the rest, all of it. Then I'm going to stand right here and let you decide what I am tonight."