He parked in a surface spot, then pulled a bouquet out of the trunk.
Pink roses.
The wrapping was elegant, the kind you could tell had been ordered in advance.
Cradling the flowers, he walked into one of the buildings.
I got out of my ride at the complex gate, walked over to the foot of that building, and tipped my head back, counting the floors.
He stopped on the ninth.
I stood down there, I don't know how long.
The sun was harsh. I didn't have an umbrella, and my skin burned under it, but I couldn't feel a thing.
There was only one thought in my head: the flowers he gave someone else were carefully chosen pink roses.
But the ones he bought me were always the supermarket lilies, three for ten dollars, thrown together however, like he'd grabbed them on his way past.
So it turned out Brad Fox did know how to pick flowers, did know what romance was, did remember the dates.
He just didn't want to do any of it for me.
I took out my phone, snapped a photo of that building, and left.
Back home, my son was in the living room watching TV.
He was four this year, in the middle class at preschool.
When he saw me come in, he ran over and wrapped his arms around my leg.
"Mommy, where did you go? I was all alone and so scared."
That was when I remembered he'd been asleep when I left, and I'd forgotten to tell him.
I crouched down and held him.
"I'm sorry. Mommy stepped out for a bit. It won't happen again."
He touched my face.
"Mommy, were you crying?"
"No. Mommy just got something in her eye."
I wasn't crying.
I couldn't.
I just kept asking myself, what exactly had I done wrong?
Every morning I got up early to make his breakfast, every night I waited for him to come home, every time he was sick I stayed up all night caring for him, every time he hit a wall I was the first to stand behind him.
I gave up my own dreams, gave up my own circle of friends, gave up the best years a woman has.
And what I got in return was him delivering flowers at another woman's door.
Was it that I hadn't been good enough?
Or had I never been the person he wanted?
That night, Brad came home at eight.
Earlier than usual.
When he walked in, his hands were empty.
No flowers, no gift, not even an "I'm home."
He changed his shoes, washed his hands, sat down at the table.
I'd made his favorite dishes. He ate for twelve minutes and checked his phone five times.
I sat across from him and didn't touch a bite.
When he finished, he set down his chopsticks and finally glanced at me.
"Why aren't you eating?"
I managed a small smile.
"I'm not hungry yet."
So he didn't ask again, just got up and went to the study.
While I was clearing the dishes, I saw the phone he'd left on the table.
The screen lit up.
A text message.
"Brad, the flowers today were so pretty, thank you. When I get back from my trip next week, can you still come pick me up?" followed by a sticker of a kitten pawing for attention.
Sender: Agatha Pruitt.
I looked at that message, my hands shaking.
Not from anger. Because I finally knew for certain.
Certain that I hadn't been imagining things.
Certain that it wasn't that I wasn't good enough, but that there really was a third person in this marriage.
I set the phone back where it had been and went on washing dishes.
The water ran loud from the faucet, drowning out every other sound.
Including the sound of my heart breaking.
I didn't lay it all out right away.
I needed time to think through what it was I actually wanted.
Did I want a divorce?
Did I want to save it?
Did I want to keep pretending I didn't know?
Every option was hard.
My son was only four, and my parents were back home, in poor health. I couldn't let them worry.
