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Saar runs her hand over the delicate knitted ridges of her sleeveless dress. “Thank you.”

“Saar made it.” The pride I feel surprises me.

I mean, my wife is a former top supermodel, and slowly but surely becoming one of the most influential podcasters, and I’m bragging about her knitting skills like I had any credit to take for them.

But when I meet her gaze, my stupid heart swells. She’s smiling at me with something akin to adoration… I’m projecting, perhaps, but her smile reaches her eyes. It’s not the polite thank-you smile.

It’s filled with gratitude, like she feels about me the same way I feel about her.

“I would probably poke my eye with the needles. You should start selling these.” Mom ushers us into the sitting room, breaking the moment.

On impulse, I slide my hand into Saar’s. She tenses for a moment, but doesn’t recoil. A win.

A few steps farther, and she squeezes a bit. Another one.

And when my mother sits us on the sofa, Saar puts my hand on her thigh, leaving her slender hand over mine. Home run.

That simple gesture makes me want to roar. To use all the billboard spaces I bought—okay, not my finest moment—the night before the incident and have my claim on her transmitted to the world.

“Sweetheart, could you go to the cellar for me? I have guests coming over tonight, and I need help with the wine. The menu is on the counter in the kitchen.”

I don’t want to move, but I’m a grown-ass man, and I can’t tell my mother I want to hold hands with my wife. So begrudgingly I trudge away, knowing that this is probably just a ploy to get me out of the room.

After retrieving the menu, I cross the hallway toward the cellar, and I glance into the sitting room.

My mom moved to sit beside Saar, and both of them are laughing. The two most important women in my life are sharing a joyous moment together. I’m rooted to the floor.

Despite my relationship with Saar being in an agonizing limbo, this moment right here is worth waiting for as long as she needs.

She’s my wife.

Though I’m a bit jealous of my mother. Saar seemed to have built a bond with her easily.

Is it just me whom she is guarded around?

I go to retrieve the wine, and when I’m back the two of them are standing by the window, their backs to me.

“I’ve never seen him so smitten. Don’t tell him I said that, though,” Mother says.

“I wish I knew what I’m feeling,” Saar confesses.

I should let them have their conversation or announce my return, but I have never claimed to be noble.

My mom rubs Saar’s back. “Feelings are to be felt, not to be known.”

“I wish I remembered who we are together.”

“But why? If there wasn’t history between the two of you, if you met him in the hospital, and that’s where your story started… would you be with him now?”

Saar turns her head to my mom. She swallows, but doesn’t say anything. The sun seeps behind her, adding soft hues to her ethereal profile.

“That’s the question you need to answer for yourself.” My mom hugs her. “Take as much time as you need, darling Saar. But if this thing between you doesn’t feel like a new beginning to you, please release him, so he can heal.”

“I will.” Saar nods, and my heart bleeds, spreading dull pain in my chest.

Things shift between us in the two weeks after our visit with my mom. We attend several functions together for my work, or for Saar’s charity causes. It’s like we’re faking our marriage for the public again.

But we also continue to fake in private. We fake our patience. We pretend we’re not frustrated. We feign we don’t wonder how long we can go on like this.