Three thousand and sixty dollars. I sat at my kitchen table and circled every charge in red until my hand cramped up. Thirty-six of them. Same store. Same amount. Eighty-five dollars, once a month, for three years straight.

Garrison’s Jewelry. I’d never set foot in the place.

My husband is David. We’ve been married eleven years. He sells industrial flooring, drives a gray Tacoma, falls asleep during the news. He is not a man who hides things. Or that’s what I would’ve told you the morning before I found that statement. He always handled the cards, I handled the house, and I almost never looked. That month I only looked because the paper version came in the mail by accident.

So I saw it. Garrison’s. Over and over and over.

And here’s the part I’m not proud of. I didn’t ask him. I already had the whole movie playing in my head. Some woman. Some younger thing he was buying earrings for while I matched his socks. I lay next to him that night and listened to him breathe and I hated him for hours.

I didn’t sleep. The next morning I waited until his truck was gone, then I drove to Garrison’s myself. I wanted a face. I wanted a name. I’m telling you, my hands were shaking on the wheel the whole way there.

The store was small. Older guy behind the counter, glasses on a chain. I put the statement on the glass and pointed.

“These charges. I need to know what they are.”

He didn’t even flinch. He just pulled the account up on his computer like people did this all the time. Maybe they do.

“David Marshall,” he read off the screen. “Monthly charm program. We call them milestone charms. Each one’s custom.”

Milestone charms. I didn’t know what that meant and I didn’t want to. I asked him to show me. He turned the monitor toward me.

And there was the list. Three years of it.

A ballet slipper. A tiny open book. A little star. A soccer ball. A paintbrush. A heart with a letter R on it. Each one had a date next to it. And each one had the same two words typed beside it.

“For Rosie.”

I read that name maybe four times. For Rosie. For Rosie. For Rosie.

I looked at the old man and my voice came out flat. “Who’s Rosie?”

He kind of glanced at his screen, then back at me, and I think he understood right then that I had no idea. He got real careful.

“He told us she’s his daughter,” he said.

I laughed. It just came out of me, this short ugly laugh, because that was the one thing it couldn’t be. “My husband doesn’t have a daughter,” I told him. “We don’t have kids. We tried. It didn’t happen for us.”