Evan and I had been married for nine years.
We had a daughter, a mortgage, shared calendars, grocery lists—everything that makes up a real life together. It wasn’t always exciting, but it was solid. Or at least, I believed it was.
The surgery itself went well.
The recovery did not.
Clara, on the other hand, improved quickly. That had always been the strange thing about her illness. She would go through phases—weeks where she looked almost normal, had enough energy to go out, dress up, smile, act like everything was fine. Then she would crash, look exhausted and fragile, only to recover again for a while.
By the time of the transplant, she had reached her lowest point.
Now I understand something I didn’t then: those “better” periods were also when she found the time and energy to carry on an affair.
I discovered everything by accident.
About five weeks after the surgery, I was in the kitchen when a phone buzzed on the counter. Evan and I had identical phones with matching cases—his idea, something he once joked made us “one of those couples.”
That week, our daughter’s school had been sending messages about a field trip form. So when the phone buzzed, I picked it up without thinking, assuming it was mine.
It wasn’t.
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