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.

statements. I managed household bills, but couldn’t access Daniel’s separate work-and-personal card. The shared account showed nothing obvious. I stopped before searching further; I didn’t want to spend weeks investigating what he’d already confessed. In the morning I called in sick. At eight he texted I canceled the conference. Seven minutes later: Can I come home so we can talk? I didn’t reply.

At 8:30 someone knocked. I feared he might have ignored my silence, but the visitor was a woman carrying no flowers. “I’m Mara,” she introduced herself,