My wife insisted we take separate cars to her parents’ anniversary party. On the way there my 10-year-old son whispered, «Dad, Mom doesn’t know I found this.»

She kissed me like she always did. Mechanical. Precise.

A habit with no hunger behind it. Then she turned away, adjusting her dress in the mirror with that distant look she thought I didn’t notice. We’ll take separate cars.

In case you want to leave early, she said. Casual. Too casual.

I didn’t argue. I just nodded. That’s what she expected.

I buckled our son into the passenger seat. He looked at me in that quiet way he always did. Studying my face the way kids study the sky before a storm.

We pulled out of the driveway. She was already gone. Halfway through the drive, he leaned in close.

His voice was barely a whisper. The kind children use when they know something is wrong but don’t know how to say it out loud. Dad.

Mom doesn’t know I found this. He opened his fist. A hotel key card.

White plastic. Room number 237 scrawled across it in blue pen. Beneath that, a name.

Mark. I took it from him. My hands didn’t shake.

Not yet. I gave him a smile that felt like a lie and turned off the highway. I think I took a wrong turn, I said…