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.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

Dinner’s ready.

Where are my keys?

I had heard it whisper beside me in bed.

I had heard it comfort Samuel when he broke his arm at nine.

I had heard it promise fidelity at our wedding.

Walter.

My husband.

I pushed open the bedroom door.

The scene inside seemed impossible.

Walter sat against the pillows wearing a navy silk robe.

My navy silk robe.

The same one he claimed he lost during a business trip to Columbus six months earlier.

A bottle of champagne stood on the nightstand.

Two glasses.

And beside Walter sat a young woman.

Maybe twenty-five.

Blonde hair.

Red lipstick.

Bare shoulders beneath a white sheet.

Walter’s face went completely white.

The girl screamed.

I did not.

For several seconds, none of us moved.

Then Walter whispered,

“Margaret.”

I stared at him.

He swallowed.

“What are you doing here?”

That question almost made me laugh.

What was I doing there?