I went to my son’s apartment with a duplicate key, convinced I was going to catch my daughter-in-law with another man. “Today this lie ends,” I thought before opening the bedroom door. But the woman inside wasn’t her: beside a bottle of champagne, I found my own husband after 32 years of marriage… and what I heard next was even worse.

He was thirty.

Successful.

Responsible.

Kind.

And in my opinion, far too trusting where his wife was concerned.

Samuel and Chloe had been married for four years.

From the beginning, I had never thought Chloe was right for him.

She was pleasant enough.

Pretty.

Quiet.

Independent.

Too independent, if you asked me.

She did not call me for advice.

She did not ask how Samuel liked his shirts folded.

She bought groceries without checking which brands he had grown up eating.

She rearranged furniture without asking whether Samuel liked the old layout.

She even told me once that I did not need to stop by every week.

I still remembered the exact words.

“Margaret, we love seeing you, but you don’t have to check on us constantly.”

Check on them.