She didn’t tell him that she never minded being the breadwinner during the long span of their twenties. She did mind something she never said aloud: she’d wished her husband were better at what he chose to do. All of that standing in line in the rain. Going in only to perform a monologue. Home again to wait by the phone that rang with no job. Sulking, drinking, throwing parties. Growing fat, losing his hair, losing his charm. Year after year after year. The very last winter in the underground apartment, she painted the ceiling gold to simulate sunshine, to cheer herself up, to give herself courage to sit Lotto down and tell him, gently, the truth: that though she believed in him, he might want to find a career he believed in as well. This acting pursuit was not going to work out.