By breakfast, the small mystery behind my husband’s car had already turned into something I could not ignore. I was standing near the exhaust of Ben’s sedan, holding several long black strands that looked far too much like hair, and every strange moment from the past few months rushed back at once.
I am blonde. Our six-year-old daughter, Sophie, is blonde. Ben has short brown hair. So when I saw those dark strands hanging from the car, my mind went straight to the possibility I had been trying not to name.
There had been longer errands than usual. Saturdays when he was gone with vague explanations. Phone calls he took in the garage, away from me. None of it had been enough on its own. But with those strands in my hand, it all felt connected.
I laid them on a paper towel and asked him whose they were. Ben did not deny anything right away. Instead, he asked where I had found them.