I stand up because I can’t listen to any more. I don’t want to be in the same room with the woman who was sleeping with my husband and tried to keep him from me in his final days. Does she truly believe that I beat her in the end? That I feel victorious because Alan wanted to devote himself to Zack and me and not her? I didn’t even know that I was a player in this game until this very moment.

She follows me to the door, where I grab my jacket and shove my arms into the sleeves.

“Wait, Abbie,” she says. “Please, don’t go.”

“Why not? I got what I came for. You told me everything I need to know. There’s no point in beating a dead horse.” I look around for my purse.

“I’m sorry I kept this from you,” Paula says, sounding a little less drunk now, “but Alan made me promise never to tell you, and after the accident, I felt so guilty . . . that it was my fault he was on the road that night. And then I figured . . . what would be the point in telling you? It couldn’t change anything, and you’d only be in more pain.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come to the funeral,” I reply. “You should have stayed away.”

But would I have preferred to live the rest of my life in ignorance? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. Maybe I would have.

“Despite how this must seem to you,” Paula continues, “you should know that Alan loved you.”

I hold up a hand. “Please. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m serious,” she replies, sounding desperate. “I was the one who was jealous of you, because I knew he’d never choose me. He didn’t want to break up your family. It was always that way. He was very clear about it.”

I find my purse and shake my head at her. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

I walk out the door, but she won’t stop. She’s like a tenacious terrier, following me down the hall to the elevator.

I press the button, the doors open, and I step on. “Please don’t contact me again. We’re done now.” The doors shut between us.

A moment later, seated in my mother’s car, I insert the key into the ignition with trembling hands and start the engine. My tires skid on the pavement as I pull away.

I make it less than a block from the apartment building before I pull over because I need to have a meltdown. I squeeze my eyes shut and pound the steering wheel multiple times with my fist.

God in heaven. Alan had cancer. And on the day that he died, he may have been trying to put an end to his affair. Or maybe his life . . .

But why didn’t he call me right away when he found out about his diagnosis? I’m a doctor. Did he not think I could handle it? Maybe I could have helped him somehow. There might have been hope, a better prognosis . . .

I force myself to sit back and take a few breaths.

Why should I even care whether Alan had a terminal disease? He’d been cheating on me for three years. Maybe longer. There could have been others before Paula. And if he was suicidal, was he just being a coward because he didn’t want to face me when the truth came out?

I squeeze my fists around the steering wheel, flex my fingers, and look up at the roof of the car. I need to let this anger flow out of me, because I can’t go home and see Zack like this, with poison in my veins.

After a moment, I dig into my purse for my cell phone. I dial my sister’s number, and I’m relieved when she answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Carla. It’s me.”

“Finally,” she replies. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What happened?”

I bite my bottom lip and fight back the tears. Alan doesn’t deserve them.

“Paula told me that she and Alan had been having an affair for the past three years and that Alan found out he had cancer on the Friday before he died.”

“What?” Carla replies. “Are you serious?”

I continue on, explaining everything I know. “He didn’t have long to live, and that’s why he was drunk on Sunday—because Paula was pressuring him to leave me, and I guess he couldn’t deal with any of it.” I pause. “He might even have been suicidal, but I doubt we’ll ever know for sure.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Oh my God.”

“But that was no excuse for him to get behind the wheel when he was drunk,” I continue. “He could have killed other people. I can’t feel sorry for him, Carla. Not after all this. He deserved what he got.”

I regret my words the instant they pass my lips, and I cup my forehead in my palm. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m just really upset right now.”

“Of course you are,” she gently replies. “And you have every right to be. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I were in your shoes and found out that Braden was keeping secrets like that from me.”

I sit in the car, in the glow from the dashboard lights, tapping my thumb against the steering wheel and staring straight ahead—not really seeing anything beyond the glass.

I feel as if my seemingly perfect life was never anything but a fragile house of cards. I had no idea that a sudden, unexpected gust of wind would blow it all down.

“Are you okay?” Carla asks. “Will you come home now?”

I inhale deeply. “Yes. Has Zack been asking about me?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s fine. He and Braden just took the girls to a movie, so he won’t be back for a while. I thought it would be good for them to get out of the house.”

“Yes,” I reply. “And listen, don’t say anything to him or Mom about this. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it, if I should tell them or not.”

Carla hesitates. “But you have to tell Zack.”

“About the affair?” I consider that for a moment and feel a strong resistance to the idea. “No, I can’t do that. He loved his dad. I don’t want him to start questioning those feelings or believe that he comes from a long line of dishonorable men. This anger and confusion I’m feeling right now is . . . it’s not healthy. Part of me wishes I’d never found out.”

She ponders my reasoning. “Maybe you’re right. But you don’t have to decide anything tonight. Take time to think about it. In the end, you’ll know what’s best.”

“I hope so.” Feeling dazed and tired, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I glance at the dashboard clock. “I should come home now. What about supper? Should I pick something up?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Mom’s already cooking. Just come home, Abbie. We’ll take care of you.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

I end the call, slap my cheeks a few times—hard—to try and wake myself up from this unbelievable nightmare, and pull onto the road leading back to my mother’s house, since the home I knew with Alan doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When I arrive, I smell something delicious cooking on the stove. After what I’ve just been through, the company of my sister and mother does wonders to soothe my spirits, and I want to hang on to that feeling of security.

Letting my eyes fall closed, I breathe deeply and remind myself how blessed I’ve been—until now. I can’t let myself lose sight of all the good things, even though all I want to do is scream and hit something.

I’m hanging up my coat when Carla walks out of the kitchen to greet me. Without a word, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tight.

“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “I don’t know how I’d be getting through this without you.”

“At least you know the truth now. You don’t have to wonder. You know exactly where you stand, and you can deal with it head-on.”

Head-on. Such strong, fighting words, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. I don’t know how to be a widow. I don’t know how to manage these feelings of betrayal that complicate the grief I should be feeling over my husband’s death, which is a tragedy all on its own. If only it were that simple, that contained.

Carla and I go to the kitchen, where I find my mother standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something. I work hard to hide the fact that I’ve just learned something shocking and heartbreaking about my husband and that it feels like my perfect world has been completely annihilated.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “That smells great. Is it chicken fiesta soup?” One of her specialties.

Mom takes one look at me and frowns with concern—probably because it’s obvious that I’ve been crying.

But that’s to be expected, right? It’s the day after my husband’s funeral. What woman wouldn’t be crying?

She asks no further questions, so I sit down at the table, already set for the three of us, with a green salad, a basket of soft rolls, and a selection of dressings in bottles. There’s a bottle of white wine too, and I can’t wait to pour myself a great big, gigantic glass.

Mom serves the soup, we pour the wine, and I’m so hungry I devour a full bowl before I realize that Winston is not at my feet. This is unusual when there’s a meal on the table, not to mention the fact that he didn’t greet me at the door.

I glance around and listen for sounds in the quiet house. “Where’s Winston?”

Mom and Carla pause with their soup spoons in midair. They look at each other questioningly.

“I don’t know,” Mom finally says, setting down her spoon. “He was in the basement with the kids earlier, before they went to the movie.”

I immediately push back my chair.

“Winston?” I hurry downstairs, reach the rec room, and don’t see him anywhere. “We’re having supper!” I call out to him. “It’s chicken soup!”

My body floods with alarm, and I start to wonder if I’m anxious about everything because I have PTSD from the crash. Or maybe I’m turning into a crazed woman who can’t relax about anything because her life is exploding and she knows there will be nothing but chaos from this day forward.