My discovery turned the love of my life into nothing more than a stud service. Like he is a stallion that I procured from some local horse breeder, and I am the willing mare. I couldn’t care less about him, but I knew at the time that he was still my best option to get a child. It’s true, I could have gone to a sperm bank, looked through the online catalog, and selected a prospect with a strong chin and a PhD. I wouldn’t have known him, though. I knew Connor. We had a history. I loved Connor. At least until that Sunday morning I did.

I was making buckwheat pancakes, and Connor was in the shower. He’d worked late on Saturday at the Blue Door, and I knew he’d be starving. I put some fresh blueberries, honey, and water in a saucepan and turned the heat on low. A nice compote would be perfect. Bacon too. I went to the refrigerator to get some, and his phone buzzed.

A text.

I didn’t give it a second thought and turned on the oven. Connor likes his bacon crispy. Very crispy. In the restaurant trade they call it “shattered.”

Funny, that word, shattered. I felt that way myself when another text came.

I bent down to look at it. It was from a number I didn’t know.

First text: You up?

Second text: God, I’m tired. Last night was amazing. I can still feel you.

The room began to shrink. The buckwheat pancakes began to burn. I could feel myself being swallowed by the open oven door. I can’t say for sure why I did it. Maybe just to see what would happen. Maybe just to help me understand that what I was seeing on my husband’s phone was a misunderstanding.

“Tired” and “amazing” could be about last night’s dinner service.

That last part, the part that said the contact could still “feel” him, was more problematic. It, to my way of thinking, could only be one thing.

So I texted back: Yeah. Great night.

I looked up and listened for the shower. Still running. Connor was standing there, letting the water run over him, while I was being run over by a truck in our kitchen. Nothing about our life together has felt equal. From the amount of money we made to the company we kept. Nothing. Not a single thing.

Next the texter wrote: I can’t wait to see you.

I was a madwoman. I stood there in my kitchen glued to the tiny screen of my husband’s outdated iPhone. I vowed right then I would not upgrade him. Not ever. The water in the shower was off. He was toweling off.

I texted back: Not going to happen. Not ever. This is over. I didn’t press “Send.” Instead, I turned on the garbage disposal and tossed his iPhone down the drain.