I spoke with a lawyer, a woman my sister recommended, who told me clearly and calmly what my options were.
I took photographs of the bank statements going back four years.
I made copies of everything stored in our shared cloud account: receipts, tax documents, correspondence.
I wrote down the timeline I had reconstructed, when the deposits changed, when the calls became shorter, when the excuses shifted.
I did not reach out to Megan.
Not yet.
What I was not prepared for was running into my husband first.
It was a Saturday morning, 9 days after Diane’s hallway confession.
I was at the farmers market six blocks from our apartment, the same market I had been going to for 4 years, the one I had described to him dozens of times in our calls, the one I had told him I wanted to take him to when he came home.
I was holding a bunch of carrots.
I looked up.
He was standing at the bread table 12 ft away.
He had not changed much, a little heavier in the face.
He was wearing a jacket I did not recognize.
He was looking at a loaf of sourdough with the focused expression he gets when he is trying to decide something small.
He had not seen me yet.
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