When we got home from the botanic gardens that day, C was in a bad mood. I could tell from his gaze, and his posture on the couch as he swiveled toward me. I wanted to tell him about the greenhouse, the ways the baby’s eyes had tracked the flickering shadows, how good it was to feel my own pretensions interrupted by her shit. But I sensed he wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

Instead, I asked about his day. He said it had been terrible. “Hope you had fun frolicking in the gardens,” he said, his voice taut with sarcasm.

I didn’t ask why his day had been so bad. I’d asked this question so many times before, I thought I already knew the answers: his frustration with work, or else the unspoken hurt of our distance. Which is maybe how love dies—thinking you already know the answers.

I said none of this to him—just, “Our day was great,” and let him read my tone however he wanted.