“Why are all the lights off?” He walked into the living room and flipped the switch. He jumped when he saw me sitting motionless in the armchair. “Jesus, you scared me,” he chuckled, loosening his tie. “How was bridge?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at him.

This man with his graying temples and his familiar, comfortable face. A stranger. “Richard,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “The Maplewood Vet Clinic called today. They needed you to refill the sedative for Biscuit.” The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might actually pass out.

His hands, which had been unbuttoning his collar, froze in mid-air. For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. “I… I can explain,” he stammered, his voice dropping to a pathetic, terrified whisper.

“Can you?” I asked, sliding the printed credit card statements across the coffee table. “Can you explain Lisa? Can you explain the groceries? The house you’re apparently renting or paying a mortgage on?” He collapsed onto the sofa, putting his head in his hands. He didn’t even try to lie.

The fight was completely gone from him. He met her four years ago. He had literally found a stray dog wandering near a job site and brought it into the nearest clinic—the Maplewood clinic. Lisa was the tech who helped him. They struck up a conversation.

She was a single mom going through a rough patch. He felt like a savior. One coffee turned into a lunch, which turned into a hotel room, which turned into him signing a lease on a townhouse for her. The dog, Biscuit, was the stray he had brought in.

They kept it. They played house together. On the weekends he told me he was at out-of-state conferences or golfing with his college buddies, he was sitting in a living room on Maplewood, playing fetch with a dog and acting like a husband to a woman fifteen years my junior.

“The sedative,” he mumbled, staring at the floor, tears finally slipping down his cheeks. “Biscuit has severe separation anxiety. He gets frantic when I have to leave and come back home.” I actually laughed. A sharp, ugly sound that startled both of us. The dog needed medication to cope with Richard leaving his second life to come back to his real one.

“Well,” I said, standing up and smoothing my slacks. “Biscuit won’t need those pills anymore.” He looked up, panic flashing in his eyes. “What do you mean?” “I mean you never have to leave that house again,” I told him. I walked past him toward the stairs.

“Pack a bag, Richard. You’re leaving tonight. You can have the dog. I’m keeping the lawyer.” I am currently sitting in the house we built together, waiting for Monday morning so I can file the divorce papers.