Ethan arrived the next afternoon.

I knew because my aunt called me from the courtyard.

—Lia, Ethan is here.

I was sitting beside my mother’s grave, replacing the incense that had burned out overnight.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I had imagined this scene countless times.

Ethan arriving.

Seeing the white mourning ribbons.

Realizing why everyone was dressed in black.

Falling silent because there was finally no excuse big enough to cover what he had missed.

But when the moment came, I felt strangely calm.

I stood and walked back toward the house.

Ethan was standing beneath the old pear tree my mother had planted when I was born.

He carried two expensive gift bags.

Supplements.

Tea.

And ingredients for lamb broth.

He smiled when he saw me.

—You could’ve waited at the station.

Then he looked around.

The smile faded.

There were white flowers everywhere.

Relatives sat quietly inside.

My mother’s photograph stood in the center of the living room.

A black ribbon crossed one corner of the frame.

Ethan stopped breathing.

The bags slipped slightly in his hands.

—Lia…

I walked past him.

He followed me inside.

His eyes never left the photograph.

—Where is your mother?

Nobody answered.

My aunt looked at him with such disgust that even Ethan noticed.

He slowly turned toward me.

—Lia.

His voice cracked.

—Where is Mom?

I looked at him.

—At the cemetery.

Silence.

He stared at me.

—What?

—She died six days ago.

The color disappeared from his face.

—No.

I almost smiled.

It was such a useless word.

No.

As if death could be rejected like a meeting request.

—She was buried three days ago.

Ethan took one step backward.

—Why didn’t you tell me?

That question finally made something move inside me.

Not grief.

Not anger.

Something colder.

—I called you.

His eyebrows tightened.

—When?

—The night she got worse.

He pulled out his phone as if the answer might still be hiding there.

Then he froze.

He remembered.

I saw it happen.

That night he had rejected two calls.

Then sent me one message:

“I’m with Clara. Don’t start anything tonight.”

Ethan slowly lowered the phone.

—Lia, I didn’t know.

—Of course you didn’t.

—I thought…

He stopped.

—You thought what?

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I looked toward my mother’s photograph.

—She asked about you until almost the end.

Ethan’s eyes reddened.

I continued because he deserved to hear every word.

—She said you were probably busy.

—She told me not to bother you.

—She still remembered that you liked her lamb broth.

His hands started shaking.

—Stop.

—Why?

I looked at him.

—You came here to cook for her, didn’t you?

I pointed toward the bags.

—Go ahead.

—The kitchen is exactly where you remember it.

Ethan closed his eyes.

—Lia, please.

That “please” would once have destroyed me.

Now it was simply late.

He walked toward the memorial table.

Then slowly knelt.

For the first time since arriving, nobody spoke.

Ethan lit three sticks of incense.

His fingers trembled so badly that the flame went out once.

Then again.

On the third attempt, he succeeded.

He bowed his head.

—Mom…

His voice broke.

I turned away.

I had wanted this.

I had told myself that if he came, knelt and apologized, something in me might finally settle.

But watching him cry didn’t heal anything.

It only confirmed how unnecessary all of this had been.

He could have answered one call.

Just one.

That evening, Ethan refused to leave.

He sat in the courtyard until almost midnight.

When my relatives finally went to sleep, he found me packing my mother’s clothes into boxes.

He stood at the bedroom door.

—Come home with me tomorrow.

I didn’t look up.

—No.

—Lia.

—I already spoke with a lawyer.

The room became silent.

I folded one of my mother’s sweaters carefully.

—The divorce agreement should reach you next week.

Ethan stared at me.

—You’re divorcing me because I missed the funeral?

I finally looked at him.

—No.

His expression tightened.

—Then because of Clara?

—No.

That confused him.

I continued.

—I’m divorcing you because when I found those condoms in your car, I realized I didn’t even care enough to ask anymore.

His face changed.

—I told you that box was complete.

—I know.

—Then why—

—Because it doesn’t matter whether you cheated.

Ethan went still.

I placed another sweater in the box.

—Do you understand how bad a marriage has to become before betrayal isn’t even the worst possibility anymore?

He said nothing.

My phone vibrated on the bed.

A message.

From an unknown number.

There was a photograph attached.

I opened it.

It showed Ethan outside a hotel three nights before my mother’s death.

Clara was beside him.

But they weren’t alone.

A middle-aged man stood with them.

I recognized him immediately.

My mother’s former lawyer.

My heart stopped.

Below the photograph was one sentence:

“Before you divorce Ethan, ask him why he met your mother’s lawyer the night she changed her will.”

I stared at the screen.

Then at Ethan.

He saw my expression.

—What happened?

I turned the phone toward him.

The instant he saw the photograph, his face went white.

Not guilty.

Terrified.

And suddenly, for the first time since my mother’s death, I realized Clara might not have been the biggest secret in our marriage.

—Ethan.

My voice came out barely above a whisper.

—Why were you meeting my mother’s lawyer three nights before she died?