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.

through what I thought was ordinary work pressure. “We spent a lot of time together,” he continued. “And?”

“And we talked.”

I repeated, “You talked.” “Yes.”

“About what?”

“Work. Life. Things.” Then “Me?” His silence told me they’d discussed me. “You talked about me.”

“Sometimes.” I asked, “What did you tell her?” He said, “Claire, I don’t think going through every conversation is going to help.” I answered, “You don’t get to decide what helps me.”

A scratch on the dining table caught my eye. Daniel had dropped a lamp