When I got married, I forgot that lesson.
I met Michael in college. We got married when I was twenty-six. We had Sophie two years later, and Ben three years after that.
He was a good husband. I want to say that. For a long time, he was a really good husband. He changed diapers. He cooked on Sundays. He read bedtime stories in funny voices. When my grandmother died, he held me all night while I cried and never once told me it was going to be
okay, because he knew I didn’t want to hear that.
I trusted him with my life. I trusted him with my children’s lives. I never once thought about looking at his phone.
Rachel started flirting with him about five years into our marriage.
It started small. At family dinners, she’d sit next to him instead of me. She’d laugh at all his jokes. Really laugh, throwing her head back, touching his arm.
“How did you find a man like Michael?” she’d ask me, smiling. Always in front of him. “Seriously, Jenna. I’m so jealous. I wish I had a husband like yours.”
“You’ll find someone,” I’d say.
