We had three children: our son Ethan in Denver with his wife Megan, and our daughters Laura and Emily, both living near Providence.
Six grandchildren altogether. Every Thanksgiving the house smelled like cinnamon and cornbread. I thought that life was fixed. I was wrong.
The first warning came in late October. I had gone to pick up our prescriptions when the pharmacist casually mentioned that Walter had changed the billing address on his account. Not ours. His. A post office box in Darien I knew nothing about.
I told myself it had to be a mistake. Walter was older. He forgot things.
Then I started noticing more. He shut his laptop whenever I entered the room. He took phone calls in the garage. On Saturdays, he claimed he was going to the hardware store, then came home two hours later with empty hands. Once, I caught a trace of perfume on his coat collar—young, sweet, unfamiliar.
I didn’t confront him right away. I am not a dramatic woman by nature. I watched. I listened. I hoped there was another explanation. We had survived hard years before. I thought this would be another one.