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.

planning to sleep with her?” When he remained quiet, I said, “Daniel.” He admitted, “We had talked about spending time together.”

“That’s not what I asked.” At last he answered, “Probably.”

Probably hurt nearly as much as yes. Their weekend had become so routine that he barely considered it a plan. His half-packed case waited in the closet: two dress shirts, three casual shirts, jeans, his best cologne. I’d seen them earlier without a second thought.

I asked, “Why the flowers?”

“What?” I repeated, “Why did you send her flowers?”