When you have been married for thirty-two years, you operate under the comforting illusion that you know every square inch of your partner’s life. You know their morning routine, their obscure allergies, the exact tone of voice they use when they are trying to get off the phone with their mother.

You certainly believe you would know if they owned a dog. It was a Tuesday afternoon. I was at Martha’s house for our weekly bridge game, a tradition we’ve kept alive for over a decade. The house smelled like lemon cake and coffee, and I was having a perfectly mundane, lovely afternoon.

My phone buzzed in my purse, but I ignored it until I became dummy for the hand. I slipped into the hallway to check my screen, assuming it was my husband, Richard. He had been working long hours lately, supposedly spearheading a new regional merger for his firm, and he frequently texted to say he’d be missing dinner.

Instead, I had a missed call and a voicemail from an unknown number. I pressed play, pressing the speaker to my ear. It was a cheerful, professional young woman. “Hi, this is a message for Richard. We’re calling from the Maplewood Veterinary Clinic with a routine reminder that it’s time to refill the monthly sedative for Biscuit.

You can pick it up anytime this week during normal business hours. Thanks!” I froze. I played the message a second time. Then a third. We do not have a dog. We had a beagle named Buster who we loved dearly, but he passed away from old age in 2014.

Richard and I had held hands in the vet’s office, crying together as we let him go. After that, we agreed we were too old and wanted to travel too much to start over with a puppy.

We haven’t bought so much as a bag of kibble in twelve years.

I stood in Martha’s hallway, the sound of the bridge ladies laughing in the next room feeling like it was coming from a million miles away. My hands were suddenly clammy. I looked up the clinic’s number on my phone. It was located on Maplewood Avenue, a quiet, leafy suburb about forty-five minutes across town.

It wasn’t near Richard’s office. It wasn’t near his gym. It wasn’t anywhere he should ever be. I dialed the number. When the receptionist answered, I forced my voice into a pleasant, breezy octave. I explained that I was Richard’s wife, that I was updating our household budget, and I just needed to double-check our dog’s prescription history.

“Oh, Mrs. H!” the receptionist chirped. “You mean Lisa’s Biscuit? She usually picks up the medication. Is everything okay?” I set my coffee cup down on the console table so hard the porcelain clattered. “Yes,” I managed to choke out. “Just perfectly fine. Thank you.” I hung up.

Lisa. There is no Lisa in our family. There is no Lisa in our close circle of friends.