I believed her. I was glad she was busy. It gave me more time to spend in Elmhurst.

The mistake happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I was leaving Elena’s apartment. I had promised to take her kids to the park, but the weather had ruined our plans.

I got into my car. My mind was racing. I had a closing on a property the next day, and Elena was asking for money to pay for her daughter’s braces.

I wanted to call her to let her know I was on my way back to our house, but I also wanted to call Elena to reassure her about the money.

I pressed the speed dial button on my dashboard without looking. I thought I pressed Elena’s name. They both started with the letter S in my contact list under nicknames I had created.

The phone rang. It went straight to voicemail.

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

I hung up. I drove home.

When I got back, Sarah was already there. She was cooking dinner. The house smelled like garlic and rosemary. She didn’t say a word about the call.

I checked my phone later. My stomach dropped for a fraction of a second. The call hadn’t gone to Elena. It had gone to Sarah.

But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t text. She just went about her evening.

I convinced myself that she hadn’t listened to it. Or maybe she thought it was a joke. I was so arrogant that I believed I had gotten away with it.

Until Sunday.

And now we were here. At my parents’ dining room table.

The voicemail was still echoing in the room. My mother’s eyes were wide, darting between me and my father.

“Arthur,” my mother said, her voice rising. “Why does she keep saying Arthur knows? Arthur, look at me!”

My father finally raised his head. He looked so old. The confident, successful businessman was gone. He looked like a trapped animal.

“Eleanor, please,” my father muttered. “It’s a misunderstanding. David made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Sarah laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound. “He didn’t make a mistake. He’s been doing this for two years. And your husband has been funding his own mistress for twenty.”

She reached into her bag again. This time, she pulled out a stack of bank statements. She threw them onto the table. They slid right into the blue ceramic bowl, knocking it over.

The potatoes spilled out onto the white tablecloth. The bowl didn’t break, but the chipped handle looked sharper than ever.