This morning, I finally caved. The Montana winter was howling outside, and the kitchen was quiet save for the sound of the coffee maker. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the spoon.

I placed the little blue pill between two heavy spoons, crushing it into a fine powder. I poured Mark’s favorite black French roast into his travel mug, stirred the powder in, and watched it dissolve into the dark liquid. There was no going back now.

When Mark came downstairs, he looked irritated, entirely engrossed in scrolling through his phone. He barely grunted a “good morning” as I handed him the mug. I had intentionally woken up early to put on a nice dress and do my makeup, hoping the visual effort combined with the medication would spark something, anything, between us. I sat across the kitchen island, nervously watching him drink.

About twenty minutes later, I saw a physical change come over him. He suddenly sat up straighter. A deep flush crept up his neck, and he started acting incredibly restless, shifting his weight and adjusting his collar. My heart pounded with anticipation. I thought it was working. I walked over, my pulse racing, and gently placed my hand on his shoulder, ready to suggest we head back upstairs.

But instead of pulling me in, Mark shot up from his chair as if he’d been burned. He stared at me with this wild, panicked look in his eyes. He didn’t look at me with desire; he looked at me like a trapped animal. He grabbed his car keys off the counter, stumbled over his boots, and blurted out that he had a sudden, massive emergency at the office and had to leave immediately.

I stood in the kitchen, completely stunned, watching his truck speed out of our snowy driveway. The medication was clearly taking effect, and instead of staying with his wife, his immediate instinct was to flee. A cold, sinking feeling washed over my entire body. The intuition that I had been burying for years suddenly screamed at me.

I didn’t think; I just reacted. I grabbed my coat and my keys, jumped into my car, and followed his tire tracks down the country road. He was driving fast, clearly agitated, but he wasn’t heading toward the highway that led to his office. Instead, he took a turn toward the other side of town. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I followed him to a modest townhouse complex about twenty minutes away from our property. I parked down the street and watched in absolute horror as my husband practically ran up the driveway of one of the units. Before he even had a chance to knock, the door opened. A woman, maybe ten years younger than me, stood there in a silk robe. She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he pulled her inside, kicking the door shut behind him.