“Please,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

My hands shook as I took the papers from my mother.

They were printed emails. Old messages. A police report.

The date of the accident.

The route.

An address that was not his grandparents’ house.

Jenna’s name.

I flipped through it, my brain trying to catch up.

There were messages between him and Jenna from that day.

“Can’t stay long,” he’d written. “Got to get back before she suspects.”

“Drive safe,” she’d replied. “Love you.”

My stomach rolled.

“No,” I whispered.

My mom’s voice was sharp.

“He wasn’t driving to his grandparents that night,” she said. “He was driving home from his mistress.”

I looked at my husband.

“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.

He didn’t. He just started crying.

“Before the accident,” he said, voice cracking, “it was… it was stupid. I was stupid. Jenna and I… it was a few months, that’s all.”

“A few months,” I repeated.

“I thought I loved you both,” he said miserably. “I know how that sounds. I was young and selfish.”

“So the night of the accident, you were driving home from her.”

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut.

“I was leaving her place when I hit the ice. Spun out. Woke up in the hospital.”

“And the grandparents’ story?” I asked.