For twelve years, I believed my husband Damon and I understood what marriage meant. I was always the one who showed up, especially when someone needed help. But there was one woman, Celeste, whose emergencies seemed to appear every Thursday afternoon, and somehow Damon was always the person she needed.

I tried not to question it until the day I was driving home from work and another driver ran a red light. I woke up in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion. My phone was beside me, and I immediately called Damon. He answered, but when I told him what happened, he sounded irritated rather than frightened.

“I’m with Celeste,” he said. “She’s having a really bad day. Call an Uber.”

I stared at the phone after he hung up. I called again. Then again. Hours passed without him coming. Eventually, I sent one final message.

Please come. I need you.

He never answered.

Then, across the city, two police officers walked into the restaurant where Damon was having lunch with Celeste.