He didn’t. The business dinners that lasted until after midnight or the late hours in the office working on a special deal started soon after Mary left for freshman year. But the more telling signs were his new commitment to working out, the spring in his step. He must have opened a new credit card, had the bills sent to the office, because there was nothing tangible, not at first.

The yoga classes were a slip, but otherwise, he didn’t make many mistakes.

It was the little things that hurt the most. The reluctance to hug me. To touch me. To kiss me. Those things were there. Despite the fact that I was a catch. As Hoffman will attest, I still am today.

I guess it all came together when we spent our last Christmas together as a family, in Telluride. During the day, David skied with Mary and Betsy, and that wasn’t abnormal. I, of course, am not a big fan of the sport, having grown up in the Deep South. I would be back at the condo, waiting for them to come home and regale me with mountain adventure stories, their cheeks rosy from the cold. And they did. But at night, David would close himself off in the office, spending hours on the computer. The newly password-protected computer. While the girls and I went to dinner without him, trying to ignore his absence. I was on to him after that trip.

I spent the spring worrying and scheming. It’s easy, really, there are all types of spyware apps on the market. I began to read his texts, track his movements, in real time. And I discovered disgusting proclamations of love, of course. But I also found more.

I discovered that my husband and my daughter were also keeping a secret from me. And that secret was worse than any affair. That stabbed into the core of my existence. They were figuring out how Mary could work for and live with Elizabeth James. Mary loved her more than me. She even told me so, one of the last times we talked. Mary spoke her words quietly, but they are burned into my heart:

I love and respect Elizabeth. She’s brilliant. I’m going to be just like her, Mary said to me.

I forbid it, I said. You’re not thinking straight, Mary. You’re irrational. Psychotic. You need to rest.

I don’t have to listen to you anymore. You are a terrible mother and I’m so lucky to have another role model. Even Kylie would be an improvement. At least she’s normal.

My daughters are my life, the very reflection of my success as a mother. Even thinking of this sends me into a rage again.