That’s when my phone pings with a notification from Instagram: @GemmaSutherland has accepted your follow request. And I’m in.

Where the blog was lacking in information, the social media stream more than makes up for it. It’s a treasure trove of pictures, mostly of her—mirror selfies of her six-pack and perfect hair. I’m tempted to save a couple to my collection, but then I quickly remind myself that this woman slept with my husband.

Scrolling down, there are a couple of images with who I imagine may be her son, but they are all strategically positioned to retain his privacy. For instance, there is one where he is hanging upside down on monkey bars, but his back is to the camera. The caption reads, “When did my monkey become a middle schooler?!”

Even though I can’t see his face in the pic, I get lost in the thought that this might be a little version of Decker. I pinch my fingers on the screen to zoom in on the image. The boy is wearing a camouflage T-shirt and his jeans are dirty from playing. He has longish blond hair that’s hanging down like strings of spaghetti. I can only assume he has a smile on his face in this moment. Maybe he has Decker’s overbite.

I think back to how old I was in middle school. I do the math and realize that Decker was probably a sophomore at the time this kid was conceived—not even old enough to legally have a drink at the bar or to rent a car.

Between our first date and our five hundredth date, he never casually—or formally, for that matter—mentioned a child out of wedlock. While I could understand how someone would choose not to lead with that kind of information upon first getting to know someone, I can’t figure out, if this Gemma thing is true, why he would keep the fact he got a girl pregnant from me, his partner. His wife. There’s a time and place for all kinds of honesty once you make that commitment to someone. Decker was a guy who understood that.

I go back to looking through Gemma’s photos. Eventually in the stream, I spot an image of two Christmas stockings hanging from a mantel. The embroidery on the smaller one says: Aiden. He has a name, I think to myself. A trendy one, at that.

As I go on to recount more of our conversation, I think back to Gemma alluding to Debbie and Kurt being in the know about this. So I run what I’ve gathered so far about Gemma into my algorithm and have it spew out stats regarding a possible link to Debbie or Kurt Austin. My search comes up dry. They aren’t friends on Facebook. They don’t follow each other on Instagram. They aren’t connected on LinkedIn. And they live worlds apart, according to their respective zip codes. There is virtually zero connection between them and I find that to be impossible given how Gemma says they are related.