And a small white scar over his left eyebrow, from the time he fell off a ladder cleaning gutters when Emma was six. I drove him to the emergency room myself. He needed four stitches. Emma held his hand and told him he was very brave.
My husband.
David.
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I drove home with my daughter’s wedding cake strapped into the back of my SUV with bungee cords and towels, taking every turn at about four miles an hour.
And the whole way home, I kept thinking the same thing.
Why was my husband at our daughter’s bakery with another woman?
I tried to talk myself out of it. Maybe it wasn’t David. Lots of men are tall. Lots of men have gray hair and navy jackets.
Not a lot of men have a scar exactly there.
I tried to think of reasons. Maybe she was a wedding planner. Maybe she was a cousin from his side I’d never met. Maybe she was somebody from his office helping with a surprise.
