My husband sent another woman a huge bouquet of white roses and pink peonies with a card signed “Love, Daniel,” and by one careless mistake, those flowers arrived at our house instead.

almost worse than silence. I approached the roses; he followed reluctantly. I asked, “Do you like them?” He answered, “Sure.” I offered him the envelope. “You should.” He hesitated before taking it. I watched him study the familiar words, as if reading them could make them less real. His jaw set.

I asked, “Who’s Laura?” His immediate answer was “A client.” The explanation came so effortlessly that I knew he’d prepared it, if not for this precise confrontation then for one like it. I repeated, “A client.” He confirmed, “Yeah.”