At family dinner, my husband secretly emptied a tiny white packet into my soup, then sneered, “Eat it, Diane. Stop pretending to be sick for attention.”

Tense.

Older than I remembered.

My name is Diane Foster.

I was fifty years old that Sunday evening, and until that moment, I would have told anyone that after twenty-six years of marriage, I knew my husband completely.

I was wrong.

Mark and I lived in Carmel, Indiana, in the same brick ranch house we had purchased when we were young.

We never had children.

Life simply unfolded differently for us.

We filled our years with careers, church events, weekend trips, dinners with friends, and the traditions Mark’s mother, Judith, treated almost like law.

The most important tradition was Sunday dinner.