The thought made me physically ill.
The following evening, Michael told me he needed to go out.
He stood by the front door, holding his car keys.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
I looked at him.
“Where are you going?”
He hesitated.
“To meet someone.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course you are.”
“Sarah, please.”
“No. Don’t explain. You have made it clear that I am the last person you want to tell the truth to.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something important.
Instead, he lowered his head and left.
Ten minutes later, I picked up my coat and followed him.
I knew it was wrong. I knew that following my husband would not repair what had broken between us.
But I could no longer live with unanswered questions.
I needed to know whether my marriage was over.
Michael drove through the center of town, past the supermarket and the old church, then turned toward a quieter road on the outskirts.
