Red flags. Even though Eileen had never allowed what she noticed that day to take full shape, had never entertained a real suspicion, it all now seemed so painfully obvious. The other flags: the office Christmas party, late nights, Eric texting on their driveway, so many times she thought something was… What? A little off? Memories that now rushed in to crush her with her own, now obvious, stupidity.

How could she be so oblivious? So blind?

“You love him too much,” Clare once said.

Eileen’s throat and face tightened again with the threat of tears. She forced herself to take a breath, big and deep, just like she’d coached the kids when they had been little and wrecked their bikes or cut their fingers. Take deep breaths. Try to think about something else.

But there were no safe thoughts, so Eileen shut them all down. Emotional vulnerability. Yes, that is happening right now.

She only wished she could call their fucking brain-dead therapist, Rachel, and self-report this moment of control. See, see how I am not reacting with my emotions first. See how I am capable of calming myself first—big, deep breaths, counting slowly down. Look how I am reaching for this flight attendant call button. Ding.

Within seconds, a smiling middle-aged flight attendant with a bright blond bob cut arrived next to her seat. She reached down, deactivated the call light, and asked, “Yes, Ms. Greyden?”

Eileen smiled back at the woman, then glanced around the cabin before settling her gaze on the space between the woman’s light brown eyes. “Could I please have a glass of cabernet?” she whispered.

“Of course.” The flight attendant nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

I’m calmly ordering a glass of wine, Rachel, instead of standing up in my seat, mouth wide, screaming at the top of my lungs as I run wild up and down and up and down the aisles, arms waving over my head. Yes, Rachel, you late-twenties know-it-all who’s never been married or had children but still feels qualified to counsel those of us that end up blindsided—BLINDSIDED—by photos of our husband fucking Lauren Andrews.

Speaking of that, would you like to see those pictures? It’s only a fraction of the evidence Dave has, but you get the idea. So, and this is just a suggestion, and I realize I don’t have a master’s degree from our local state college, but maybe next session we could discuss these photos with Eric, spend a bit more time digging below his excellent example of emotional stability, because I can’t help feeling like these photos suggest, I’m only suggesting, perhaps some culpability?

But just think about that, Rachel, because maybe I’m wrong. I have been feeling quite emotionally vulnerable.