I drove back home. My hands were steady on the steering wheel. I think that was the scariest part. I wasn’t panicked anymore. I was just done.

When I walked into the kitchen, David was sitting at the table, scrolling on his phone.

Our live-in nanny, Maya, was standing at the counter pouring a glass of orange juice. Maya was 22. We had hired her 6 months ago to help drive Emma to her gymnastics classes because my transcription shifts ran so late. She lived in our small guest room over the garage. We didn’t charge her rent, and I often cooked her dinner. I treated her like a younger sister.

I started making breakfast. I fried bacon. I scrambled eggs. I even made toast. My voice was completely normal when I spoke to them. “Morning, guys,” I said. David didn’t even look up from his screen. He just muttered a quick greeting.

I placed his plate in front of him. Then, I reached into my purse and pulled out his phone. I had swapped it back into the leather case Emma made. I set it right next to his coffee mug.

“Your second Instagram is really interesting, David,” I said. My voice was very quiet. Very flat.

David jerked backward. His hand hit his blue ceramic mug, and it shattered on the hardwood floor. Hot coffee splashed across his slippers and puddle-dyed the white kitchen rug. He didn’t even flinch at the heat. He just stared at the phone.

“What are you talking about?” he stammered. He tried to laugh, but his eyes were darting toward the hallway. “Is this some kind of joke?”

I didn’t answer. I reached into my bag and pulled out the thick stack of papers. I didn’t throw them.

I just slid the top page across the wet table, right over the grease from his bacon.

“I don’t think it’s a joke,” I said.

It was a printout of the video of me sleeping. He looked at the paper, and I saw his jaw lock. He reached out to grab the edge of the wooden table to steady himself. His skin went entirely pale.

“Look, Ellen,” he said, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. He glanced over at Maya, who was suddenly very quiet by the refrigerator. “It’s just a social media thing. It’s an aesthetic. I’m trying to build a travel blog. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just for engagement.”

“Really?” I asked. I slid the next page across the table.

It was a screenshot from his direct messages. He had sent a message to a girl saying he was trapped in a passionless marriage with a woman who didn’t care about his dreams.

“We can talk about this privately,” David whispered, his eyes wide. “Please. Not in front of Maya.”

“Actually, I think Maya should stay,” I said. I looked over at her. She was holding the orange juice carton so tightly her fingers were turning white. She wouldn’t look at me.