It didn’t take long before they went into the kitchen; maybe fifteen minutes. Excitedly, I grabbed Gayle’s arm. “They’re moving. They’re moving,” I announced, like some overzealous Secret Service agent. I could see them fairly clearly now through the bare windows—Adrienne in a dark pullover sweater and jeans, her hair up in a clip; Donald wearing the same clothes he’d left with earlier in the day, also a dark sweater and jeans. She leaned against the counter, with her back to the sink; he stood beside the refrigerator, then sat down at the kitchen table that was right by the windows.

It was like watching a silent movie.

Adrienne left the room momentarily, went into the living room, took something off the bookshelves, and returned to the kitchen. She sat down at the table next to Donald. They appeared to be talking. But I couldn’t see what they were doing. What any of it meant.

“I’m going in,” I announced suddenly, sounding even more ridiculously officious, like a Navy SEAL.

Gayle dropped the baggies onto her lap. “You can’t be serious! We’ll be caught for peeping!”

“I’m serious. I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

Before she could stop me, I zipped my jacket up, slid out of the car, pushed the door silently closed, and ran quickly past the giant SUV. Crouching, the way detectives do on television, I ran up the stretch of grass to the row of bushes just under the kitchen window. I was terrified but excited.

It was dark and very quiet there in the bushes, and though it was quite chilly, I noticed I was sweating. I unzipped my jacket, wiped my forehead, my cheeks, with my open hand. Then I closed my eyes, waited for my breathing to slow, my pulse to stop pounding in my ears, so I could hear again. Finally, through the window, through the glass that was open just a crack, I heard them:

“Look,” Adrienne said. “Remember this? That time we went to Martha’s Vineyard.”

A pause.

“Wow,” Donald said, wistfully. “Look how young we looked. How small Lucy was. How thin I was.”

“And look. At these. That week in the Hamptons, Sagaponack.”

Another pause.

“It feels like a hundred years ago, doesn’t it?” she said.

“More. It feels like a thousand years ago.”

They were looking through photo albums, obviously. Reminiscing about their past. Clearing the way for their future. Their baby. I tried to wrap my mind around the finality of it all, the deep anger I felt; the deep sadness I knew would soon follow. Donald had deceived me; been unfaithful to me. Our life together was completely over. Their years of history, sustained connection, had in the end won out.