Sunday morning, the air cooled. People left with luggage wheels clicking on stone. Brooke and Tyler packed in silence. They drove south.
Every local radio station within an hour carried dedications to Brooke from her husband, Dan—a corny, obvious flourish I admit I enjoyed. Tyler's jaw clenched. Brooke stared straight ahead. The highway stretched out like a verdict.
They reached our driveway near 8:00. I was watching a game, calm as the lake, when Brooke walked in. Tyler hovered like a shadow.
"One more step and you need to leave," I said, not rising. He left.
Brooke stood with her arms crossed, eyes shining like a storm that couldn't choose rain or lightning. "It was you," she said. "All of it."
I set the remote down. "No, Brooke. It was you. I just turned on the lights."
She inhaled like she might speak, then let out a long, breaking exhale. "We can fix this. I made a mistake."
"A mistake is leaving the milk out," I said. "This was a decision, and decisions have consequences."
"What do you want me to do?" she whispered.
"Nothing," I said. "Because the next part isn't about what; it's about what is."
I held up her wedding band. I'd flattened it in a vise. No drama, just a symbol that matched the truth. "This," I said, "is the shape of what we became."