The soft glow of the restaurant candles should have felt romantic. It was our second wedding anniversary, and I had dressed for the kind of evening every wife hopes still means something after the honeymoon years fade. At exactly 8:47 p.m., my phone lit up with a message from my husband, Alex: Happy second anniversary, baby. I’m stuck at work. Miss you. For one brief second, I smiled. Then I looked up and saw him sitting only two tables away, leaning close to another woman with his hand resting gently behind her neck. The woman was visibly pregnant. And suddenly, the elegant restaurant around me became the place where my entire marriage unraveled.
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