I walked into my company party and found my husband’s arm wrapped around a coworker’s waist, and then, in front of everyone, he told me I had never been anything more than his housekeeper.

I tried to find another explanation.

Then Carl bent down and whispered something in her ear, and she pressed closer, and my last excuse folded in half.

I walked straight toward them, still holding the deviled eggs.

“Carl,” I said. “What the hell is going on?”

The nearest conversations died.

Carl turned around.

For half a second, something flickered across his face.

Then he smiled.

“Well, honey,” he said. “What did you expect?”

I stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

He shrugged.

“I’m not attracted to you anymore. I guess there’s no point hiding it now. Sheila and I are together.”

The dish was suddenly too heavy.

I set it down on a stranger’s table because my fingers had stopped working.

“How dare you,” I said. “I’m your wife.”

He barely reacted.

He gave another little shrug, the kind you give a waiter who has brought the wrong side dish.