I let my 7-year-old daughter spend one afternoon at a classmate's house — then at dawn the other mom called, her voice barely a whisper: "I'll probably regret saying this, but your daughter told mine everything she saw inside your husband's trunk."

I dropped Sophie at school, came home, changed into something that made me feel steady, and drove downtown to Diane Foster's office.

Fourth floor. Quiet. The kind of furniture that's supposed to make you feel like you're in good hands.

Diane was in her late fifties, short gray hair, the kind of eye contact that tells you right away she's heard all of it before and doesn't rattle.

"Walk me through it again," she said. "From the start."

I did. She took notes and asked exact questions and didn't perform sympathy at me — just listened and wrote and asked me to pin down a date here and there.

When I finished, she set the pen down.

"The recurring transfer is the interesting piece," she said. "Seven months, two hundred a month. Not a big number. But it lines up with when your message thread starts."

"He's been paying for something."

"Maybe. Could be a storage unit or a shared subscription. Could be more. We'll find out." She folded her hands. "Here's where you stand. You've got documented evidence of an ongoing affair. You've got a financial transfer you didn't know about. And you've got a second phone, unmoved, full of communication. That's a solid foundation."

"What are my options?"

"That depends on what you want," she said. "Some women come in here wanting to save the marriage. Some want out clean. Some just want to be protected no matter what their husband decides. Where are you?"

I looked at my hands.

"I want to be protected," I said. "And I want Sophie protected. Everything after that — I haven't decided."

She nodded. "Sensible place to start."

We spent another forty minutes on specifics — what to keep documenting, what not to do, how to handle the accounts, what to expect if it got ugly.

At the door, she stopped me.

"You said he's going to the hotel today."

"That's what the message said. Same place. Thursday."

She looked at me steadily. "Do you want to know for certain that he went?"

I understood what she was asking. An investigator. Documentation. Something that couldn't get argued away later as a misread text.

"Yes," I said. "I want to know."

"I'll make a call."

I drove home. Picked Sophie up. Made dinner.

Ethan came in at seven, kissed my cheek, said the meeting ran long.

He smelled faintly of a hotel room — that mix of recycled air and someone else's perfume you only catch when you're already looking for it.

"How was your day?" he asked, filling a glass of water.

"Fine," I said. "Quiet."

He sat down with Sophie and worked through her reading homework, and I stood at the stove watching the two of them, thinking: he has no idea. He's sitting in this kitchen with his wife and his daughter and he has absolutely no idea.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Unknown number.

Confirmed. Arrived 2:09 PM. Departed 5:41 PM. Photographs obtained. Ms. Foster has been notified.

I turned the phone face-down without answering.

"Everything okay?" Ethan called from the table.

"Spam text," I said.