On the flight home, a woman sitting across the aisle leaned in and asked if I was all right. I turned and looked at her. She had gray hair and kind eyes. Of course I’m all right, I wanted to say. But she seemed to know better.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“My husband’s dissertation.”

“What’s it on?”

“Loss.”

“Is that why you’re crying?”

“Well,” I said, pausing to wipe my eyes. “I’m halfway through, and it’s obvious he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

She smiled.

“But that’s not why I’m crying.”

I reached over to give Sam a different crayon. Teddy had lifted the shade and was stretching up to look out the window. He named the clouds. Popcorn. A doggie.

“Good, Teddy,” I said. “That’s good.” I turned back and found the woman waiting with a small packet of tissues.

“You were saying?”

“Oh,” I said, and this I whispered: “I cheated on my husband.”

“I see.”

From her lack of reaction, I could’ve said, “I’m from Northern California” or “I like the color green.”

“It was a onetime thing,” I said, opening the packet of tissues. “And it’s over.”

“Do you still love your husband?”

I nodded.

“So what’s the problem?”

I didn’t have an answer. All I could come up with was “Somewhere it went wrong.”

“Well, did you die?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you dead?”

“No.”

“Is he dead?”

“No.”

“Well, then . . .”

I waited for her to say more. But she went back to her reading. Then the pilot came over the intercom and said we’d begun our descent.

During the taxi ride from the airport, the boys fell asleep. This gave me time to gather myself for my reunion with Tim. I decided not to tell him what I’d done with Jeff at Disney World. This was a go-to-the-grave secret. Never to be told. What would it serve to let him know how nice it was (because at first it was) to kiss Jeff again and do other things again? This was my plan. Could I (the astonishing keeper of secrets) keep this secret? Yes. Would he be able to tell when he looked into my eyes—would he know that something had happened?

When the taxi pulled up in front of our building, I didn’t see Tim sitting on the stoop. But there he was, waiting. He looked unsettled, wild-eyed. I signaled that both boys were asleep, and we busied ourselves getting them up to the apartment, careful not to wake them.

Our apartment was spotless. Cleanest ever. Tim had sorted through papers. Cleared shelves. Organized our overcrowded medicine chest. Bagged up outgrown clothes for Goodwill. He had fixed the broken cabinet door.

He could see I was pleased. He smiled at my reaction. And that was when I noticed.

“Honey, what happened to your tooth?”

He didn’t want to say.