looked away.
“I know.”
“No, Daniel. I don’t think you do. Because if you understood, you would have stopped before it reached this point.”
He sat at the kitchen table.
I went upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time, I allowed myself to cry.
I cried for the woman who had waited up all night.
I cried for the dinners I had prepared while wondering whether my husband was with another woman.
I cried for the conversations in which I
