On the night my marriage finally cracked wide open, my husband, Ethan, walked through our front door with another woman on his arm as casually as if he were bringing home takeout.

It was a Thursday. I remember because Thursdays had always been our “quiet night.” No guests, no business dinners, no excuses. I had cooked lemon chicken, set the table for two, and even lit the candle my sister gave us for our tenth anniversary. By seven-thirty, the meal had gone cold. By eight, I wasn’t worried anymore. I was angry.

Then I heard the lock click.

Ethan walked in first, tie loosened, expensive cologne trailing behind him, that familiar half-smile he wore whenever he thought he could talk his way out of anything. Behind him followed a tall blonde woman in a cream coat and heels too delicate for our cracked front steps. She glanced around my living room with the detached curiosity people have in hotel lobbies.

“Claire,” Ethan said, as if I were the one interrupting his evening. “We need to be adults about this.”

I rose slowly from the dining table. “Adults?”