That night I lay in bed beside my husband, the way I had lain beside him for eleven years, and I listened to him breathe, slow and even and untroubled, a man sleeping the deep sleep of someone who believes he has gotten away with everything.

I looked at his face in the dim light coming through the curtains, and I made myself think the thought all the way through, the one I had been circling for four days without letting myself finish it.

The problem was not that Julian had another woman.

That was a wound, and a deep one, but a woman can survive a wound.

The problem, the real and terrifying problem, was the money.