Gloria held up a small silver tablet, and on its screen was a doorbell camera video, paused. “I have watched this every week since I moved in,” she said gently. “Press play, honey.” The footage showed my husband’s car in her old driveway, in the dead of night, with a woman climbing out of the passenger seat. My knees nearly gave out. The timestamp was from last spring.

“That was my house before I sold it,” Gloria whispered. “He met her there, again and again, because the owner at the time rented it out.” I could not breathe. Then the video changed, and a new clip began, showing my husband laughing beside that woman, his hand resting on her swollen belly. Behind me, a car door shut. My husband was home from the gym, and he was walking toward us.