By the time I discovered my husband was having an affair, I had already spent 16 years pretending not to notice the things that made me unhappy.
The afternoon light stretched across our bedroom floor as I folded Noah’s small T-shirts into neat squares, one after another. Downstairs, Lily was practicing the same four measures on the piano, and somewhere outside, a ball kept thudding against the garage door.
It should have felt like an ordinary Tuesday.
Instead, it was the last ordinary Tuesday of my marriage.
The phone on the dresser buzzed.
It was Margaret, of course.