“Who are the kids, David?” my wife, Sarah, asked.

She set her fork down. The metal made a sharp, clean sound against the porcelain. It was Sunday evening. The roast chicken was sitting in the middle of the table.

Everything was laid out perfectly. The monogrammed napkins. The heavy water goblets.

And right next to her plate was the blue ceramic serving bowl with the chipped handle. We bought that bowl for three dollars at a garage sale when we first got married. It was our favorite thing. It felt like home.

But nothing about home felt real anymore.

Sarah didn’t look angry. She didn’t look sad. She just looked incredibly tired. Her parents were sitting to her left. My parents were on her right.

My mother, Eleanor, laughed a nervous, fluttering laugh. “Sarah, sweetheart, what a strange joke. What do you mean, kids? You two don’t have children yet.”

Sarah didn’t answer her. She didn’t even look at my mother. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. She reached down and tapped her phone screen.

The voicemail began to play.

The sound of my own voice filled the dining room. It was loud. It was way too loud. I had recorded it from my car three hours earlier, parked near the interstate.

“Hey beautiful, I’ll be there by 9. Tell the kids Daddy’s coming home.”

The recording clicked off. The dining room became so quiet that I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. My mother’s face went completely still. Her hands, which had been reaching for the bread basket, stopped mid-air.

“What is that?” my mother whispered. She looked at my father, Arthur. “Arthur, what is that?”

My father didn’t answer. He was staring down at his plate of chicken. He didn’t move a single muscle.

“I’ve known for two years, David,” Sarah said. Her voice was flat. “I knew about the apartment in Elmhurst. I knew about the second bank account. I just needed you to put it in your own words. The court will appreciate this recording.”

My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt like it was full of sand. I looked at my father. I was begging him with my eyes to say something. To lie for me.

He wouldn’t look up.

“Don’t bother looking at him,” Sarah said, leaning forward. Her fingers were pressed against the table. “He already knows. The woman you’ve been calling is his former mistress’s daughter. He’s the one who gave you her number.”