The point was simpler.

For years, geography had been mistaken for duty.

Once Mark left, everyone would have to confront that.

Denver appeared beneath us after two long days of driving.

Mountains on the horizon.

An unfamiliar skyline.

A temporary apartment paid for by Mark’s company.

We walked into it carrying two suitcases and a box containing Patricia’s chipped pottery bowl.

Mark put the bowl on the kitchen counter.

Then he stood at the window for a long time.

“Regret it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

So I did.

“No.”

A week later.

“No.”

A month later.

Still no.

The transformation wasn’t dramatic.

There was no montage where Mark suddenly became twenty years younger.

There were small things.

Saturday mornings stayed ours.

His phone stopped dragging him across town.

He joined a gym near the office.

We found a house west of the city with a view that still startled me whenever the sky was clear.

Mark threw himself into the new job.

I had always known he was capable.

I hadn’t realized how much of his energy had been divided.

His territory covered five states.

He traveled more professionally, but strangely, he seemed more present at home.

When he was home, he was home.

No sudden garage doors.

No dripping faucets.

No television emergencies.

Then, in late November, Patricia called.

Mark stared at her name.

I was chopping onions.

“You going to answer?”

“Yes.”

He picked up.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her voice was loud enough that I heard immediately.

“The pipes are leaking.”

Mark’s eyes closed.

“Where?”

“Under the kitchen sink.”

“Did you shut off the valve?”

“I don’t know which one.”

He leaned against the counter.

“There should be two valves underneath.”

“I can’t crawl under there.”

“Is Dad home?”

“His knee is bothering him.”