On my 35th birthday, my husband, Mark, threw a beautiful lakeside picnic. It should’ve been perfect. But then he suddenly said he had to leave for “work”—on a Saturday, during my party. Something felt off. So I followed him. Instead of going to the office, Mark drove home. I watched from a window as he lounged on the couch, headset on, playing video games—laughing, carefree, while I was back at the party with our kids and guests.

Heartbroken, I called our neighbor Nina and asked her to check our door, pretending I forgot to lock it. Minutes later, she walked into our house in a sundress—smiling, holding pasta salad.