She moved through my hallway like a woman running an errand.

She had not just taken my husband, or my savings.

She had been robbing my home, calmly, for weeks, and the affair — the thing I had driven across the city sick to my stomach to confirm — was, I now understood, the smallest part of what she’d done to me.

I sat with that footage for a long time, and I felt something reorganize itself inside me, a shift in the whole architecture of the betrayal.

On the drive to Farah’s the night before, I had thought the wound was the affair — that the worst thing in the world had happened, that my husband and my best friend had slept together, and that I would spend the coming year learning to live with that particular knife.

But the affair, it turned out, was almost the innocent part.