"Of course I do. I want to drive over there and ask them what is wrong with them. I want to hear them explain how they could do this to us."

His voice broke.

"But if we call them now, they'll have time to decide what to say. I need to know the truth."

For the first time that evening, I realized that my son wasn't asking me to protect him from what had happened.

He was asking me to help him face it.

"All right," I said. "We'll take our time."

We agreed that we would preserve the messages and photographs we already had, avoid making accusations we couldn't support, and speak to them separately when we were ready.

Then Daniel asked a question I hadn't expected.

"Mom, have you noticed anything strange about Dad since before the wedding?"

I thought about it.

The late nights.

The phone always turned face down.

The perfume I didn't recognize.

"Yes," I admitted. "But I kept making excuses for him."

Daniel looked away.

"I think I did the same thing with Jenna."

He told me that she had become unusually protective of her phone in recent weeks. Sometimes, when he entered a room, she would stop typing and turn the screen away.

He had assumed she was planning a surprise or discussing something private with a friend.

He hadn't wanted to become the kind of husband who questioned every little thing.

"I trusted her," he said.

I squeezed his hand.

"So did I."

We remained at the cemetery until the silence became easier to bear.

Before leaving, Daniel placed a small leaf on his grandfather's headstone.

"I'll come back soon," he said quietly.

Then he turned to me.

"Mom, whatever happens next, we're going to get through it."

I wanted to believe him.

But neither of us knew that the most difficult conversation of the night was still waiting for me at home.

When I arrived, Mark's car was already in the driveway.

I sat behind the steering wheel for nearly five minutes, staring at the house where I had spent most of my adult life.

Thirty-one years.

Thirty-one Christmas mornings. Thirty-one anniversaries. Countless dinners, arguments, reconciliations, and ordinary days that had seemed too unimportant to remember.

How could one discovery make all those memories feel unfamiliar?

Eventually, I went inside.

Mark was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.

He looked up and smiled.

"Hey, sweetheart. Where have you been?"

I placed my handbag on the counter.

"I went to see Daniel."

His smile faded slightly.

"At this hour?"

"He needed me."

Mark set down his glass.

"Is something wrong?"

I studied his face.

For years, I had believed I knew every expression he made. I knew when he was tired, when he was worried about money, and when something at work had irritated him.

Now I wondered how many times I had mistaken guilt for exhaustion.

"We need to talk," I said.

His shoulders stiffened.

"About what?"

I took out my phone.

"Thursday night."

The change in him was immediate.

He didn't ask which Thursday.

He didn't ask where I had been.

He simply stared at the screen.