I recognized her face right off. Sandra. The sharp-as-a-tack bookkeeper. And bless his heart, he didn’t even bother to hide the rest of it, because behind the two of them, stuck up on my refrigerator with the same magnets I’d put there myself, were our family photos.

The grandkids. Our wedding picture. Megan’s graduation. He’d had this woman in our home, in my robe, and he hadn’t taken down a single picture of his own family. Like we were just wallpaper. Like we didn’t count enough to bother with.

I stood there longer than I’d like to admit, just looking at her laughing in my robe. And I’ll be honest, the anger hadn’t even come yet. It was something quieter and worse, like the floor of my whole life had gone soft underneath me. Forty-one years. Two eggs over easy. “Checking out for the day.” I thought about every morning he kissed my cheek and then drove past that orange door, and I wanted to be sick right there on the concrete.

I turned to go. I’d seen enough, more than enough, and I just wanted to be back in my car. But something about that picture wouldn’t let me walk off, and I stepped in closer for one more look. I don’t even know what I was hoping to find. Maybe I wanted to memorize her face for when I finally screamed it all at him. And that’s when I noticed the microwave. It sat on a little shelf behind them, off to one side, and the door of it was dark and shiny like a mirror.

There was a reflection in it. Whoever took that picture was caught right there in the glass, holding the phone up. I leaned in until my nose was nearly touching the photo.

Small, but clear enough. A young woman, hair pulled back, one arm raised, a phone in her hand. And I knew that stance. I knew that hair. I’d braided that hair at my kitchen table for eighteen years.