For four years my husband's family called me the walking credit card and ordered lobster every time I was at the table. At my father-in-law's birthday dinner I smiled, let all nineteen of them order, and then a waiter came out carrying a tray of nineteen separate checks.

She said, "Leave it with me," and then she said one more thing, which was, "Nineteen?" and I said yes, and she said "Right," and I could hear in her voice that she had worked out roughly what was going on.

Then, that afternoon, I found the other thing.

I was looking for a bank letter in Torren's desk drawer and there is a spreadsheet, printed, folded in four, at the back of it.

Four columns. Date, restaurant, occasion, amount.

Two years of it in my husband's handwriting.

He had been keeping a running total since 2023. The figure at the bottom of the page was not as high as mine because he had stopped updating it in the November, but it was there.

He knew the number. He had known the number for two years and had written it down every time and said nothing.

I did not confront him about it that afternoon. I put it back exactly as it was and went and had a shower and got ready.