I stood by the counter in my robe, listening to the soft hum of a house that had raised two children and carried a thousand ordinary mornings.
But that morning was not ordinary.
Robbert came downstairs already tying his tie.
“You’re up early,” he said, brushing past me to pick up his travel mug.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek. I caught the faintest trace of something floral on his collar.
The scent was sweet and familiar, though I could not place it right away.
“You smell like a garden,” I teased.
“New cologne. I got a sample at the pharmacy.”
He was lying. I knew it.
It was not only the scent on his collar. It was also the way he had been turning his phone face-down at dinner for weeks.
I watched him leave, then reached for my phone.
I needed someone to talk to, someone who would tell me I was wrong, because how could my husband of 28 years possibly be cheating on me?
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