After we’d cleaned up the kitchen and tried in vain to take the dogs for a walk on the slippery sidewalks, Andy asked, “Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
“I think it’s time I came clean with you.”
“Only if you’re ready,” I said, hoping he was.
We walked into the family room and sat at either end of the couch, facing each other. I tried to keep a look of calm, patient anticipation on my face, but I could hardly stand the suspense. I was finally going to hear his story.
We sat there for probably five minutes. To me it seemed like hours. I surmised Andy was trying to collect his thoughts, deciding where to begin, stirring up the courage to talk about it. I was starting to think he’d changed his mind. I fought the urge to fidget.
Then Andy took a deep breath. “I was married,” he began. “Her nam
