My husband, Tyler, has been a commercial pilot for almost nine years, but our 7-year-old son, Mason, had never actually been a passenger on a plane Tyler was flying.

She called on Monday.

I hadn't expected that.

I had thought about reaching out to her myself and then decided against it — she had enough to process without me adding to it.

But she called, from a number I didn't have saved, and something made me answer.

"Is this Jenna?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"This is Sophie."

I sat down.

"I know this is strange," she said.

"I almost didn't call.

I almost didn't call about ten times."

"I'm glad you did."

Another pause.

"Are you?"

"Yes.

Genuinely."

She exhaled slowly.

"I wanted to say that I'm sorry.

I know that probably sounds—"

"Don't apologize," I said.

"You didn't know."

"I should have asked more questions."

"You asked the questions he gave you answers to.

That's not the same as not asking."

She was quiet for a moment.

"How long have you known?

About me, I mean."

"Since the plane."

"Not before?"

"Not before."

She made a small sound.

"I've been going over everything.

Every time I asked him about the divorce.

Every time he had a reason why it was taking longer.

I keep thinking — how did I not see it?"

"Because he was careful," I said.

"He had a second phone.

He built it to be invisible."

"A second phone." She repeated it slowly.

"Of course he did."

"Sophie.

I want to ask you something, and you don't have to answer."

"Okay."

"Did he ever talk about Mason?"

A long pause.

"No," she said.

"He never mentioned a son."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"I don't know if that makes it better or worse."

"I don't know either," I said honestly.

We were quiet for a few seconds.

It was a strange kind of quiet — two women on either side of the same lie, neither of us responsible for it, both of us sitting in the wreckage of it.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I have a lawyer.

I'm figuring out the next steps."

"Is there anything I can do?

I mean — if you need someone to confirm the timeline, or what he told me, or—"

"Actually," I said, "yes.

There may be.

Can I pass your number to my lawyer?"

"Yes," she said, without hesitating.

"Absolutely yes."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Her voice was quiet but firm.

"He lied to both of us.

If telling the truth about what he said to me helps you, then that's the least I can do."

After we hung up, I sat for a long time with the phone in my lap.

I thought about what it meant that Sophie had called.

That Carol had written.

That Donna had come over without being asked.

That the truth, once it started moving, had gathered its own momentum — witnesses stepping forward, evidence surfacing, a text that was supposed to be gone coming back.

Tyler had built his second life carefully.

He had been meticulous.

He had thought about every detail.

He had not thought about the people.

He had not thought about what women do when they finally compare notes.

I picked up my phone and called my lawyer.

"Tuesday still works," I said when she answered.

"And I have two additional witnesses who are willing to speak to the timeline."

"That's helpful," she said.

"Anything else?"

"There's a second phone with fourteen months of messages.

I have the passwords."