One text from “Mike” made me suspicious. The truth was far more complicated.

For twenty-four years, I trusted my husband completely.

His name was Andrew.

He was forty-six.

I was forty-three.

We had built what everyone else called a solid marriage.

Two children.

A comfortable home.

Shared vacations.

Friday pizza nights.

The kind of ordinary life you stop noticing because you assume it will always be there.