She is kind as well. Everyone in her class was always invited to her birthday parties for fear of hurting someone’s feelings, and when she was nine, she once spent an afternoon walking from towel to towel at the beach because she’d found a discarded watch in the surf and wanted to return it to its owner. Of all my children, she has always caused me the least worry, and when she comes to visit, I drop whatever I’m doing to spend time with her. Her energy is infectious, and when we’re together, I wonder how it is I could have been so blessed.

Now that they’ve all moved out, our home has changed. Where music once blared, there is nothing but stillness; while our pantry once shelved eight different types of sugared cereal, there is now a single brand that promises extra fiber. The furniture hasn’t changed in the bedrooms where our children slept, but because the posters and bulletin boards have been taken down—as well as all other reminders of their personalities—there is nothing to differentiate one room from the next. But it was the emptiness of the house that seemed to dominate now; while our home was perfect for a family of five, it suddenly struck me as a cavernous reminder of the way things ought to be. I remember hoping that this change in the household had something to do with the way Jane was feeling.

Still, regardless of the reason, I couldn’t deny that we were drifting apart, and the more I thought about it, the more I noticed how wide the gap between us had become. We’d started out as a couple and been changed into parents—something I had always viewed as normal and inevitable—but after twenty-nine years, it was as if we’d become strangers again. Only habit seemed to be keeping us together. Our lives had little in common; we rose at different hours, spent our days in different places, and followed our own routines in the evenings. I knew little of her daily activities and admitted to keeping parts of mine secret as well. I couldn’t recall the last time Jane and I had talked about anything unexpected.

Two weeks after the forgotten anniversary, however, Jane and I did just that.

“Wilson,” she said, “we have to talk.”

I looked up at her. A bottle of wine stood on the table between us, our meal nearly finished.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking,” she said, “of heading up to New York to spend some time with Joseph.”

“Won’t he be here for the holidays?”

“That’s not for a couple of months. And since he didn’t make it home this summer, I thought it might be nice to visit him for a change.”

In the back of my mind, I noted that it might do us some good as a couple to get away for a few days. Perhaps that had even been the reason for Jane’s suggestion, and with a smile, I reached for my wineglass. “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “We haven’t been to New York since he first moved there.”

Jane smiled briefly before lowering her gaze to her plate. “There’s something else, too.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s just that you’re pretty busy at work, and I know how hard it is for you to get away.”

“I think I can clear up my schedule for a few days,” I said, already mentally leafing through my work calendar. It would be tough, but I could do it. “When did you want to go?”

“Well, that’s the thing . . . ,” she said.

“What’s the thing?”

“Wilson, please let me finish,” she said. She drew a long breath, not bothering to hide the weariness in her tone. “What I was trying to say was that I think I might like to visit him by myself.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“You’re upset, aren’t you,” she said.

“No,” I said quickly. “He’s our son. How could I get upset about that?” To underscore my equanimity, I used my knife to cut another bite of meat. “So when were you thinking about heading up there?” I asked.

“Next week,” she said. “On Thursday.”

“Thursday?”

“I already have my ticket.”

Though she wasn’t quite finished with her meal, she rose and headed for the kitchen. By the way she avoided my gaze, I suspected she had something else to say but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. A moment later, I was alone at the table. If I turned, I could just see her face in profile as she stood near the sink.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun,” I called out with what I hoped sounded like nonchalance. “And I know Joseph will enjoy it, too. Maybe there’s a show or something that you could see while you’re up there.”

“Maybe,” I heard her say. “I guess it depends on his schedule.”

Hearing the faucet run, I rose from my seat and brought my dishes to the sink. Jane said nothing as I approached.

“It should be a wonderful weekend,” I added.

She reached for my plate and began to rinse.

“Oh, about that . . . ,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking about staying up there for more than just the weekend.”

At her words, I felt my shoulders tense. “How long are you planning to stay?” I asked.

She set my plate off to the side.

“A couple of weeks,” she answered.

Of course, I didn’t blame Jane for the path our marriage seemed to have taken. Somehow I knew I bore a greater portion of the responsibility, even if I hadn’t yet put together all the pieces of why and how. For starters, I have to admit that I’ve never been quite the person my wife wanted me to be, even from the beginning of our marriage. I know, for instance, that she wished I were more romantic, the way her own father had been with her mother. Her father was the kind of man who would hold his wife’s hand in the hours after dinner or spontaneously pick a bouquet of wildflowers on his way home from work. Even as a child, Jane was enthralled by her parents’ romance. Over the years, I’ve heard her speaking with her sister Kate on the phone, wondering aloud why I seemed to find romance such a difficult concept. It isn’t that I haven’t made attempts, I just don’t seem to have an understanding of what it takes to make another’s heart start fluttering. Neither hugs nor kisses were common in the house where I’d grown up, and displaying affection often left me feeling uncomfortable, especially in the presence of my children. I talked to Jane’s father about it once, and he suggested that I write a letter to my wife. “Tell her why you love her,” he said, “and give specific reasons.” This was twelve years ago. I remember trying to take his advice, but as my hand hovered over the paper, I couldn’t seem to find the appropriate words. Eventually I put the pen aside. Unlike her father, I have never been comfortable discussing feelings. I’m steady, yes. Dependable, absolutely. Faithful, without a doubt. But romance, I hate to admit, is as foreign to me as giving birth.