Whenever I asked about his father, the answer was softer.

“Let’s talk about that another time, love.”

Another time rarely came.

I had not searched because I had grown up in a house where searching became a way of life.

My father had cheated on my mother with a woman none of us knew existed.

I remembered the arguments, the checked receipts, the silence when a telephone rang.

As a girl, I promised myself I would not become a wife who treated every unexplained detail as evidence.

I confused that promise with refusing to ask a second question.