I didn’t say goodbye. I think I just dropped the phone onto the counter. The plastic made a loud clattering sound on the laminate. My brain genuinely stopped working for a few seconds. I stood there staring at the microwave clock, watching the minutes change.

I drove to our local bank on Wilmington Pike. I did not want to look at the records online; I wanted to see a real person. I sat across from a young woman named Clara who looked at me with worried eyes as I asked her to pull up our joint savings account. That account held my father’s inheritance money. It was 40,000 dollars that we had set aside for Lily’s future.

Clara clicked her mouse several times. She turned the screen toward me.

My father’s money was gone.

Over the past four years, Greg had been transferring small amounts, usually 300 or 400 dollars at a time, to an external account. The transfers were labeled as “business expenses” or “material costs.” But when I looked at the destination account, it was a personal checking account under the name Amanda Vance.

I sat in my Buick in the bank parking lot for two hours. I did not cry. I just watched the rain slide down the windshield. I thought about the weekends Greg had spent “working on a big commercial site” in Huber Heights. I thought about the times he told me he had to work late because his assistant was sick. It had been going on for seven years. The girl, Emma, was seven. She was born before Greg and I even got married.

I drove home. The sky was gray and heavy.

When I walked into the house, the smell of garlic and meat sauce hit me immediately.

Greg was standing at the stove, whistling a cheerful tune. He was making his special spaghetti sauce. He was wearing his gray Dayton Flyers t-shirt. He looked like the perfect husband.

Lily was sitting at the kitchen table, still coloring with her green glitter marker.

I walked slowly into the kitchen. I did not take off my coat. I stood near the refrigerator, watching his back.