It had been taken from across a street, through the tall glass front of an expensive restaurant downtown, the kind of place with white tablecloths and a wine list you have to ask for.

And I recognized the man at the table immediately, because I had been married to him for eleven years.

Julian.

My husband.

The father of my only child.

He was sitting across from a young woman with dark hair swept over one shoulder and a sleek cocktail dress, and his sleeves were rolled up, and he was wearing an easy, relaxed, delighted smile, the kind of smile I could not remember seeing at our own dinner table in a very long time.

The worst part was not the woman.