I don’t even know how to start this, so I’m just going to say it.

I found a dry cleaning ticket in Dennis’s jacket pocket back in October. I was cleaning out his things to drop off at the laundry and there it was, stapled to a receipt.

I almost didn’t look at it. I mean, why would I? We’ve been married 24 years. You stop looking at things after a while. That’s just the truth.

But I looked at this one.

The receipt was for alterations. $47. A dress, size 6. I held it and read it again because I thought maybe I misread it. I’m a size 12. I have been a size 12 since my youngest was born. I don’t own a size 6 anything. I don’t think I’ve been a size 6 since high school, honestly.

I set it down on the kitchen counter and stared at it for I don’t know how long.

Now, Dennis travels for work. Always has. Regional sales, covers four states, gone two or three nights a week sometimes. I never thought much of it. That’s just how it’s always been with us. He calls when he’s on the road, remembers my birthday, comes home with those little hotel soaps I like. I’m not saying we were perfect. But I thought we were solid. I thought we were the boring, solid kind of married that lasts.

I called the dry cleaner the next morning. It was a place called Caldwell Clean and Press over on Route 9, about 20 minutes from our house. I’d never been in there. Dennis always handled his own dry cleaning, said it was easier on his way to the highway.

The woman who answered was polite enough. I said I was calling about an account under Caldwell and she pulled it right up.

“There are two pickup accounts under that name,” she said. “Did you want the one on Birch Street or the one on Fenmore?”

I live on Birch Street.

I didn’t say anything for a second. I just asked who the Fenmore account belonged to.

She got a little quiet. “I really can’t give out customer information, hon. You’d have to talk to the owner.”

The owner was Mike. Mike Caldwell. Dennis’s cousin. I’ve known Mike since Dennis and I started dating. I danced with him at our wedding. His daughter calls me Aunt Carol.

I didn’t call ahead. I just drove over there that Thursday evening and walked in.

Mike saw me come through the door and something crossed his face. I can’t describe it exactly. Not quite guilt, not quite surprise. Something in between that landed wrong in my stomach.

“Hey, Carol.” He busied himself behind the counter right away, started moving hangers around that didn’t need moving.

I put the ticket on the counter between us and asked him about the two accounts.