I spent three days imagining this conversation.
In some versions, I apologized perfectly.
In others, Corinne screamed.
Sometimes she cried.
Sometimes she told me she still loved me.
Sometimes I convinced her that fifteen years together had to matter more than one terrible year.
The real Corinne only looked at me.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?”
“How long have you known?”
“The first time I knew something was wrong was seven months before Owen was born.”
I tried to calculate.
“What happened?”
“You started protecting your phone.”
“I’ve always had confidential business—”
“No,” I said.
“You’re right.”
“You changed passwords.
You started showering as soon as you came home.
Your explanations became too detailed.”
“Too detailed?”
“You’d tell me the name of the restaurant, what the client ordered, why traffic was bad, which street you took home.”
A faint, humorless smile touched her mouth.
“You never used to explain yourself that much.”
