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.

wanted me to know. I replied Okay. On Tuesday he messaged that therapy was difficult and overdue. I didn’t respond.

A week after the delivery, at precisely 2:17 Thursday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen. The vase was put away; the card remained in my drawer, perhaps for proof or punishment. I read its note to Laura again. Before, it had made me feel replaced. Now I saw it as evidence of Daniel’s choice, not Laura’s superiority or my failure. His affair described him, not my worth.

I put