Six years into our marriage, I saw a woman on my husband’s phone. He didn't show it to me on purpose. He was taking a shower when an unknown number texted him an intimate photo. A woman in pajamas, resting her head against his chest, throwing up a peace sign at the camera. I picked it up and tapped it open. I scrolled up. The chat history was completely wiped. The entire conversation window contained only this single photo. The contact name was just a letter: L. He hadn't saved her full name, or any other identifying information. But it was glaringly obvious. He was cheating on me. 1 I placed the phone back on the coffee table, screen facing down. The water in the bathroom stopped running. He came out, drying his hair with a towel, and picked up his phone just like he always did. He swiped the screen a couple of times; his expression didn't change at all. I stared at his profile. From college to now, eleven years. I could trace the lines of his face with my eyes closed. He suddenly turned to me. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." He smiled and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips brushed my earlobe. They were cool and smelled of his grapefruit body wash. "You must be exhausted today," he said. "Go to sleep early." I nodded, but I lay awake with my eyes open until dawn. The next morning, I called in sick to work. After his car pulled out of the driveway, I went back inside and opened his backup phone. There was no 'L' in the contacts, but the photo was still in the cache folder. And it wasn't just the one from last night. There were photos from two years ago, a year ago, six months ago... different locations, but the same woman. In front of a hotel's floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped in a bathrobe, holding a glass of red wine. On a boardwalk by the beach, her arm linked through his, a sunset in the background. At an expensive sushi restaurant, feeding him a piece of salmon with her chopsticks. The last photo was recent. Her stomach was slightly rounded. Her hand rested on it, and he was looking down, kissing her forehead. The timestamp was from two months ago. My phone buzzed. A text from him. [Things are slow at the institute today. I'll be home for dinner. Let me know what you want to eat, I'll pick it up.] I locked my screen. I didn't reply. I dialed the number of the sushi restaurant from the photo. "Hi, I'd like to check a reservation record from about three months ago. For a table by the window. The reservation would be under the name Davis." "Please hold for a moment... Mr. Davis, correct? Yes, we have that. A table for two. The lady accompanying him was a Ms. Lin." I hung up the phone. He never took me to sushi restaurants. He always said he hated raw fish. Turns out, he didn't hate raw fish. He just didn't want to eat it with me. It took me a week to figure out who she was. Lily Lin, thirty-one years old, a cellist for the city symphony orchestra. She wasn't some college sweetheart he was having a nostalgic affair with, nor a random, meaningless fling. She entered his life much earlier than I could have ever imagined. Eight years ago, he gave a guest lecture at the symphony hall. She was in the front row of the audience. Seven years ago, he was invited to the New Year's concert. She performed a solo; he presented her with flowers. Six years ago, we got our marriage license. That was also the year a "Mr. Davis" started appearing frequently on her social media. Never showing his face, only his hands. A hand helping her out of a car, a hand carrying her cello case, a hand holding a wine glass on her birthday. I scrolled through five years of her posts, one by one. She posted a picture of sheet music with the caption: The seventh year since he taught me how to read music. She posted a picture of a Ragdoll cat with the caption: When you're not here, he keeps me company for you. She posted a blurry photo of a view from a window with the caption: He said he'll bring me here again next time. 2 I started living like a private investigator. When he showered, I went through his briefcase. When he was at meetings, I checked his dashcam. Late at night, when he was fast asleep, I used his fingerprint to unlock his phone. The passcode was our wedding anniversary. That discovery made me sick to my stomach for three whole days. He was using a passcode that tied him to me, while living an entirely separate life with another woman. 'L' was hidden in a contact group labeled "Work Contacts." Her profile picture was a close-up of piano keys. He cleared their chat history every day, but occasionally, something slipped through the cracks. On the 10th of last month, he was on a business trip to Boston. She texted that she wanted to eat at a specific private kitchen near the harbor. He replied: Okay, I'll take you. That same day, he texted me: Meetings are back-to-back. Just grabbing takeout. On March 17th, she said her music room was too cold. He replied: Bought you a space heater. It arrives tomorrow. That same day, I asked him if he was coming home for dinner over the weekend. He said he had to stay late at the lab supervising his grad students. On April 2nd, at 2 AM, she sent a selfie, her eyes red from crying. He replied instantly: Why are you still awake? She said: Had a dream about you. He replied: Silly girl. I'm always here. I stared at that message. I stared until the screen went dark, then tapped it to light it up again. I waited for the tears to come. But my eyes were dry. Not a single tear fell. The next day was Saturday. For once, he wasn't working overtime. "We haven't watched a movie together in a while," he said, standing in the entryway putting on his shoes. "There's a new one out with great reviews." I looked at him. I had ironed his shirt last week. He had polished his dress shoes himself yesterday. He'd gotten a haircut recently, making him look sharp. He said we hadn't watched a movie together in a while. He sounded like he actually meant it. "I can't today," I said. "I'm meeting Joanne to look at building materials." He paused. "For the renovation?" "Yeah. I want to replace the bookshelves in the study." "Thanks for handling all that." He walked over and, just like always, put his arm around my shoulders. "I'm no help at all with these things." His hand was warm, resting on my shoulder through my thin sweater. I used to crave that warmth. Now, it just felt heavy. I went to see Joanne. We weren't looking at building materials. It was an asset evaluation. Joanne was a woman in her forties with short hair and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Davis, what exactly are you looking for?" "The flow of marital assets post-wedding." I pushed the bank account numbers and property deeds across the desk. "Specifically, any large expenditures over the past five years, or any transfers with an unknown destination." She flipped through the paperwork, then looked up at me. "Are you prepared for this?" "What do you mean?" "A lot of wives come in here wanting an audit, but halfway through, they get too scared to keep digging." She closed the folder. "It's not that they can't find anything; it's that they can't handle the truth." I didn't say anything. She studied me for two seconds, then nodded. "Alright. I'll have a preliminary report for you in three days." When I left her office, it was raining outside. I hadn't brought an umbrella. I stood under the awning, staring blankly into the distance. My phone buzzed. It was him. [Made sweet and sour ribs for dinner. Left a portion for you on the second shelf of the fridge.] I stared at the text. Three years, and he still remembered that sweet and sour ribs were my favorite. He remembered that I hate cilantro. He remembered that I'm allergic to cats. He remembered everything he was supposed to remember. So how did we end up here? The rain fell harder. I didn't text him back. 3 Three days later, Joanne emailed me the report. The moment I opened the attachment, my hand shook on the mouse. Item 1: March, four years ago. Wire transfer of $35,000. Memo: "Renovation." Joanne's annotation: Recipient Lily Lin. No contractor license. Purpose of funds unknown. Item 2: August, three years ago. Payment of $68,000. Memo: "Car Purchase." Joanne's annotation: Vehicle registered under the name Lily Lin. Item 3: November, two years ago. Credit card charge of $18,000. Location: Paris. Joanne's annotation: Mr. Davis has no record of international travel during this period. Item 4, Item 5, Item 6. Five years. Over two hundred thousand dollars. A hundred thousand of that came directly from our joint savings account. The account was in my name, and I set the PIN. He had never once mentioned touching that money. I pulled out the bank statements. The last time I checked was a year ago, and the balance hadn't changed. Did he transfer the money out and secretly deposit cash back in to cover his tracks? Or had he been keeping two sets of books from the very beginning? I called the bank. The customer service rep checked for five minutes. "Mrs. Davis, there are no records of large withdrawals from this account over the past five years." "That's impossible." "The system shows that all transfers were replenished with cash deposits on the exact same day." I hung up. He had a secret bank account I knew nothing about. He used that account to wire money out, then used cash to refill our joint account. Clean and flawless. I went to his workplace. Not to confront him, but to see Brenda. Brenda was the Deputy Director of Finance. She sat at the head table at our wedding; she was a former subordinate of his late father. I didn't beat around the bush. I just said I wanted to see his payroll records. Brenda didn't ask questions. Half an hour later, she slid a piece of paper across her desk to me. Nathan Davis. Monthly salary: $8,500. Annual performance bonus: $15,000 to $25,000. Total income over the past five years: roughly $600,000. Account balance: $12,000. I stared at it for a long time. "Where is the rest of the money?" Brenda shook her head. "It's not my place to ask." She paused. "Nathan... I watched that boy grow up. His parents passed away early. When Old Mr. Davis entrusted him to me, he said Nathan was cold on the outside but warm on the inside, that he didn't know how to navigate the world. He asked me to look out for him." She looked at me. "Stella, did you find something?" I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. "Brenda," I said. "His father asked you to look out for him. If my dad were still alive, I doubt he'd let me suffer like this." I didn't wait for her to respond. I got up and left. I was alone in the elevator. My face in the mirror was calm, as if nothing had happened. But my fingers were gripping that piece of paper so tightly my palms were sweating. He came home early that night. I was in the kitchen serving soup, and he leaned against the doorframe watching me. "Joanne mentioned you guys went looking at floor tiles today?" "Yeah." "Did you decide on anything?" "Still looking." He walked over and took the soup bowl from my hands. "I'm heading to Seattle tomorrow for a business trip. Three days." "Okay." He hesitated. "Stella, has something been bothering you lately?" I looked up. He was looking at me, his brow slightly furrowed. I knew that expression intimately. He looked like that when work was stressful, when his students caused trouble, when he was worried about his tenure review. In the past, I would have pressed him, tried to comfort him, done everything I could to make him smile. Now, I just offered a faint smile. "No. Just exhausted from the renovation stuff." He nodded and didn't push it. He slept deeply that night. I lay on my side, using the sliver of light from the streetlamp outside the window to trace his profile. His eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his lips. Eleven years. I had looked at this face countless times. The first time was during freshman orientation. He was standing in the front row of the formation, sweat dripping down his forehead without him wiping it away, his jaw clenched, stubborn and unyielding. I remember thinking back then, This guy is interesting. Later, when he was pursuing me, he stuttered three times while asking me out. My roommate told me, "For a block of wood like Nathan to gather that kind of courage isn't easy. Don't make it too hard on him." I nodded and said, "Okay." Then he pulled me into his arms, our chests pressed together, his heart beating heavy and fast against mine. The leaves on the sycamore trees fell and grew back, grew back and fell, eleven times. I pulled my hand back from his face. I rolled over and closed my eyes. A small patch on my pillow was wet. I don't know what time I finally fell asleep. 4 During the three days he was in Seattle, I did two things. First, I found out Lily Lin's address. I asked a friend in real estate to check the property records for her complex over the past three years. The purchase date was one month after she bought her car. The total price was $1.2 million. Second, I met with someone. A former colleague of Lily's who had left the symphony six months ago and now ran a private violin studio. I paid $3,000 for a package of adult lessons. She taught me for twenty minutes, took the money, and was in a great mood. I took her out for coffee. We talked about the orchestra, the concertmaster, the cellists. "Lily Lin," she said, stirring her latte. "Pretty face, plays decently enough. But man, she's lucky." "How so?" "She's got a sugar daddy." She lowered her voice. "Claims he's her boyfriend, some science guy. Every year during the orchestra's fundraising drive, this guy makes an anonymous donation of a hundred grand. It's been going on for three years. And guess what? The money is earmarked specifically for the cello section, with the stipulation that Lily be made the principal cellist." She set her coffee cup down with a clatter. "That position was supposed to go to our associate principal. She'd put in ten years of hard work, but I guess ten years doesn't compare to having a rich boyfriend." I didn't say anything. My coffee went cold. That afternoon, I drove past the Oceanview Residences and parked outside the gate for ten minutes. It was a high-security complex; you needed a keycard to get in or out. But I saw her. She looked a bit thinner than in the photos, wearing a loose knit dress and flat shoes. She was walking a Corgi on a leash, strolling leisurely out of the complex to the convenience store across the street to buy water. When she came out, she opened the bottle and crouched down to water the dog first. The Corgi clearly adored her, constantly nuzzling the palm of her hand. She laughed and leaned down to kiss the dog's forehead. I started the car and drove away. He came back that night, bringing a box of specialties from Seattle. I opened it. It was a box of artisanal salted egg yolk pastries. "You mentioned you wanted to try these," he said, sitting on the sofa looking at his phone. "I happened to be passing by the bakery, so I picked some up." Mentioned. Back in my sophomore year of college, his roommate went to Seattle for an internship and posted on Facebook about how good these pastries were. I had casually commented that they looked good. He remembered that. I picked one up and took a bite. The red bean paste was sweet, the salted egg yolk savory. He asked, "Are they good?" "They're good." He put his phone down and looked at me. "Stella, I actually took care of something else while I was in Seattle." I didn't look up. "What is it?" "I looked at a condo," he said. "In Bellevue, really close to the water. We have enough for the down payment. I want to put it in your name." I put the pastry down. "Why buy a place there all of a sudden?" He paused. "I wanted to surprise you." He smiled. "You've always said you wanted a place near the ocean." I wanted a place near the ocean. He gave another woman the sunset on a beach boardwalk. I wanted to buy a house. He paid entirely in cash for a two-bedroom condo for another woman. I closed the box of pastries. "It's too expensive," I said. "We don't have that kind of money." "We can scrape together the down payment." He hesitated. "We can also dip into our retirement funds." "We can't afford it." He was silent for a few seconds. "Are you... worried about money?" I turned to look at him. His eyes were so sincere. So sincere that I almost believed those bank transfers, the property deeds, the orchestra donations were all figments of my imagination. "Nathan," I said. "Are you hiding something from me?" He froze. "Why would you ask that?" "No reason." I put the pastries in the fridge. "We're not buying a condo right now. The renovations are costing too much as it is." He didn't push the issue. I went to bed early that night. Thinking I was tired, he dimmed the bedroom lights and quietly pulled the door shut. I lay there with my eyes open, listening until his breathing became long and steady. At 2 AM, I got up. His phone was charging on the nightstand. The passcode was still those same six digits. I unlocked it. He had wiped the chat with 'L' completely clean. But in his Notes app, there was a draft saved. The title was just one word: Chloe. I tapped it open. It was a letter. Written to his unborn child.
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