My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

By the time I reached our driveway in Society Hill that Tuesday night, the Philadelphia sky had already dissolved into the color of wet slate. The city in late October had a peculiar way of making every glowing window look like a sanctuary I could not quite reach.

I sat in my car with my hands gripping the steering wheel and allowed myself exactly six seconds of silence before facing the house. That was all the time I permitted myself to be tired before I stepped into the role of the woman who held everything together.

The day had been a marathon of three intense motions argued in court and a dozen frantic calls from junior associates who seemed to bill by the hour for their own confusion. I kicked off my designer pumps in the mudroom and carried my heavy laptop bag into the kitchen to start a pot of water for pasta.

Troy Salinger was already home and had been for quite some time. He was sprawled across the sofa in a pair of gray fleece pants and a faded university hoodie that he had never actually earned through a degree.