My mother had suffered a stroke, so I grabbed the first flight from Columbus to Chicago. My husband, Ryan, was supposedly already there for work, while my best friend Megan was meant to be attending a conference in Indianapolis. I boarded with a little gold box of chocolates for Mom and collapsed into row twenty-seven, terrified I might lose her. Then, somewhere near the front of the plane, I heard a laugh I had known for twenty-two years.

I looked toward row two and saw Megan sitting beside a man in a navy jacket. For one hopeful second, I tried convincing myself there was an innocent explanation. Then the man turned his head. It was Ryan. My husband. Before I could even process why they were together, Megan placed her hand on his arm. Ryan tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned over to kiss her. Not a friendly kiss. A long, intimate one. Neither of them knew I was watching.

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