He looked confused. “What are you talking about?” he said. I walked over to the table and dropped the stack of papers. They made a loud, sharp slap against the wood. He looked down at the pile.

He didn’t pick it up. He just looked at the top page. His face didn’t go white. He didn’t scream. He just let out a long, slow breath. “I can explain,” he said. That was the most painful thing he could have said. It wasn’t “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t “I messed up.” It was just a cold, practiced excuse.

“Don’t,” I said. I felt the air leave my lungs. “Just don’t.” He looked at me, and for the first time in thirty years, I saw a stranger. I saw a man I had fed, a man I had nursed through the flu, a man I had prayed for every single Sunday morning. “It’s not what you think,” he started. I cut him off. “I don’t care what it is,” I said. “I know where you were.”

He didn’t move. He just stood there. “We need to talk about this,” he said. I shook my head. I looked at the photos of us on the wall. They looked like pictures of ghosts. I realized then that I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to hear about his stress or his work or whatever lie he had cooked up for Diana. I just wanted to be quiet.

I walked past him and went to the bedroom. I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t take any money. I just lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan. I can hear him out there. He is pacing. He is calling my name softly.

He is trying to fix it. But some things aren’t broken. Some things were just never real to begin with.

I am lying here, and the house feels like it is shrinking. I know I have to leave. I know I have to call a lawyer in the morning. But for right now, I am just listening to the sound of my own heart. It is the only thing in this house that is still true. I wonder if he is still looking at the papers. I wonder if he is counting the forty-seven nights like I am. I don’t think he ever cared about the count. He just cared about the Tuesday and the Thursday.

I don’t know where I am going to go when the sun comes up. I have a sister in Ohio, but that is a long way to drive. My car is still sitting in the driveway with the check engine light on. I suppose that light was the kindest thing that ever happened to me. It showed me exactly where I stood.