I sat in my car for twenty minutes afterward, staring at the copy in my lap, replaying twelve years in my head. The separate bank account he’d opened “for business expenses” two years ago. The business trips that had multiplied over the last eight months — conferences in cities I’d never heard him mention before. The new phone, face-down on the table at dinner, lighting up with messages he’d angle away from me.
I’d told myself I was being paranoid. I’d told myself twelve years meant something. I’d told myself that the distance between us was just stress, just routine, just what happened to couples who stopped paying attention.