My husband wanted 6 kids, but after our youngest was born, he complained that I was "always tired and no fun anymore" — so I decided to prove I could still be fun, just not in the way he expected.

Patrick Hale's office was on the third floor of a building near the town center — plain waiting room, good coffee, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate.

I told him everything.

The full version, not the edited one I'd been carrying around in my head.

The four years of slow withdrawal.

The golf Saturdays.

The comment about being tired and no fun.

The notification.

The name.

The phone call in the garage and the mud on Carter's shoes.

Patrick listened with a legal pad in front of him and wrote very little on it.

When I finished, he said: "What outcome are you hoping for?"

"I don't know yet," I said.

"I need to know what I'm dealing with first.

If I'm wrong, I want to be wrong with all the information.

If I'm right, I want to know my options before I say anything else to him."

He nodded.

"That's a sensible position." He put his pen down.

"I want to be honest with you.

What you have right now is a feeling and a one-line preview.

That's not nothing — your instincts are clearly working — but it's not enough to make permanent decisions from."

"I know."

"There are a few directions from here.

You could ask him directly and see what he does.

You could consult a private investigator if you want documented evidence before any conversation.

Or you could simply watch and wait and let him make the next mistake."

"He's already careful," I said.

"The phone call in the garage.

The contact saved as initials.

He's been doing this long enough to have habits."

Patrick looked at me steadily.

"Then he'll make a mistake eventually.

People who are careful for a long time get comfortable.

Comfort is when they slip."

I thought about the flowers.

The peace offering.

The sudden talk of date nights and Saturday mornings with the children.

"He knows I'm watching," I said.

"Yes.

Which means he'll be on his best behavior for a while." Patrick leaned forward slightly.

"Mrs.

—"

"Just call me Nora."

"Nora.

Whatever you decide to do, do it from a position of information, not emotion.

Right now you're ahead of him because he thinks he's managed the situation.

Don't give that up by moving too fast."

I drove home with both hands on the wheel and the radio off.

Carter was working from home that day.

He was at the kitchen table with his laptop when I came in, and he looked up and smiled and asked how the dentist was.

"Fine," I said.

"Just a check-up."

"Good." He went back to his screen.

I made lunch.

I brought him a plate without being asked.

He thanked me and squeezed my hand.

I went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed.

*Let him make the next mistake.*

I didn't have to wait long.

That afternoon, while Carter was on a call in the study and I was folding laundry in the bedroom, his personal laptop — the one he kept on the dresser, not the work one — lit up with a calendar notification.

I wasn't looking for it.

I was reaching past it for a stack of shirts.

The notification was for an event titled *DM — lunch.* The date was this Friday.

The location field wasn't blank.

It was a hotel name.

In the next town.

I finished folding the shirts.

I put them in the drawer.

I went downstairs and started dinner.

When Carter came out of the study, he was in a good mood — the call had gone well, he said.

He offered to help with dinner.

He poured me a glass of wine without being asked.