I need to back up for a second because my head is still spinning. I know how this sounds. I know some of you are going to tell me I should have just confronted him the second I found the profile.

But when you have been married to someone for twenty-six years, you don’t just jump. You freeze. Your brain genuinely stops working for a second because the person sleeping next to you suddenly looks like a total stranger.

It started on a Thursday. Greg was in the shower. His iPad was on the kitchen counter, and it kept buzzing. Usually, I don’t look. We don’t have those kinds of rules in our house, or at least, I thought we didn’t. But the screen kept lighting up with a little pink icon I had never seen before. It was an app called Cupid’s Nest.

I picked it up. I don’t even know why. Maybe some part of me already knew.

There was a message from a woman named Sarah. But when I clicked on the profile, it wasn’t Sarah’s messages that made my stomach drop. It was the bio Greg had written for himself. He had uploaded a picture from our vacation in Maine last summer. He had cropped me out of the photo, leaving just his smiling face against the blue ocean.

Underneath, he had written: “Fifty-three, retired early, looking for a fresh start. My wife passed away two years ago after a long battle with illness. It’s been incredibly lonely, but I’m ready to find my person again. Serious relationships only.”

I stood there in the kitchen, staring at the screen. The coffee maker was dripping behind me. The kitchen smelled like toasted English muffins. Everything was so normal, but I felt completely hollow. My wife passed away.

He came out of the bathroom, smelling like his expensive sandalwood soap. He was wearing his gray robe, the one I bought him for Christmas.

“Everything okay, Di?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t even notice the iPad in my hand because I had quickly set it back down, screen side down.

“Fine,” I managed to say. I could barely get the word out. “Just thinking about the grocery list.”