I was leaving the dry cleaners with my husband’s suits when a colleague told me, “He’s not traveling, he’s been with another woman for days,” and at that moment I understood why my marriage was already a lie.

Even now, that specific detail feels like the most humiliating part of the whole ordeal. It was not the trendy bistro in Austin, nor the rainy Tuesday afternoon, nor even the man who approached me with a sympathetic look on his face.

It was the sight of those three tailored suits hanging in plastic, perfectly pressed and smelling of those sharp chemicals that try to make everything look spotless even when the person inside is rotten. I had driven across the city that morning to pick them up because I wanted everything to be ready for his return.

The night before, I had ironed his favorite shirt, checked the Texas weather forecast, and organized his travel kit with meticulous care. I even updated his phone wallpaper with his digital boarding pass so he would not have to fumbling through his emails at the airport.

These were the small acts of devotion a person performs out of love, or perhaps just out of a blind habit of believing the person you care for is also looking out for you. I was waiting for my latte when I ran into Simon, a man I had seen occasionally at corporate events for my husband’s tech firm.