Oh, God, he’s cheating.

My thoughts surge and roll like a riptide, crashing into each other from all directions, then shushing back before I can figure out the current. I just...I just don’t know what to think or where to swim.

Leo hands me a glass of wine. “Thank you,” I say.

Is my life over? Life as I knew it?

My heart starts thudding in hard, erratic beats. I love my life. Our life. Finally, we seemed to hit the sweet spot. Before, even though I liked my job and my coworkers and friends, I was waiting for my real life to begin. Marriage. Motherhood. Just as I was starting to worry that I’d never meet anyone, I met Adam. The courtship and marriage part was strangely easy. But then came four years trying to get pregnant. Hormone injections and trying desperately to keep our love life fun and spontaneous—and, please, there is no spontaneity when you’re trying to get pregnant, but I did my best to trick Adam into believing I was just incredibly horny and creative. Then thirty-three weeks of sheer terror, because when you’re pregnant with triplets, you’re a time bomb, and all you pray for is to make it to twenty-seven weeks, then another week more, and another week more.

Those first few weeks, when Rose and Grace got to come home but Charlotte had to be in the hospital, and then with all three of them, at least one baby always awake, always hungry, always crying, always needing to be changed, the pain of my huge cesarean incision, my rock-hard, ever-leaking breasts... Even then, I loved it.

But this past year, with the girls all sleeping through the night, eating regular food, and the no-dairy restriction lifted from Grace, and nobody having a peanut allergy, and Rose seeming to have outgrown the asthmatic bronchitis... I’ve loved every day of so many months, been so grateful for every day.

Please don’t let these days be over. I don’t want things to change. Please, God, don’t let Adam be cheating.

I guess I said that last thing out loud, because my sister squeezes my hand.

“Maybe...” I begin. My voice sounds as thin and weak as rice paper. “Maybe whoever sent it just hit the wrong number?”

“Sure,” Jenny says, but she’s stiff and tight next to me, so it’s clear what she thinks. I look at Leo.

“Do you think it’s a wrong number?” I ask him. He’s a man. Maybe he’ll know.

He hesitates, then runs a hand through his hair. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because if you were going to send a picture like that, wouldn’t you make sure it was going to the right person?”

Yes. Except I would never send a picture like that.

I gulp a mouthful of wine. My head is starting to pound.

My husband might be having an affair.

My husband is having an affair.

The words don’t sink in.

“So you’re a piano teacher?” I ask him.

“That’s right.”

The wine in my glass trembles, as if we’re having an earthquake. Oh, no, it’s because my hands are shaking. “Some of my friends use you. Elle Birkman? Her son is Hunter. And um, um...Claudia Parvost. Her daughter is Sophia.”

“Sure. Nice people.”

Elle and Claudia aren’t really my friends. We’re in the same book club. We all belong to the COH Lawn Club. The girls and I take Mommy and Me swim classes there. Elle just had breast implants and now wears a string bikini that makes the teenage-boy lifeguard extremely uncomfortable.

Apparently, my brain will think about anything other than that...picture.

“My girls... We want them to take an instrument. I always thought piano would be the nicest.”

He smiles. It’s a sad smile, because he knows. “How old are they?”

“Three and a half.”

“Twins?”

“Triplets.” I smile, but my smile is broken and weak, wobbly as a newly hatched baby bird. “Are they too young?”

“Not necessarily. If they can sit still for half an hour, they’re not too young.” It’s a kind answer, because he doesn’t want to deny me anything right now, because I’m a pathetic, stupid wife, the wife is always the last to know, my wife doesn’t understand me, my wife will never find out, I’m leaving my wife.

I chug the rest of the wine in my glass.

“Why don’t I go?” Leo says.

“Yes. Thank you,” Jenny says, standing up. She walks him to the door, and they murmur for a second, no doubt expressing their horror and sympathy for me.

Jenny comes back and sits next to me, her pretty face concerned. This was supposed to be her weekend. I was supposed to help her, and the girls were supposed to come to cheer her up, because it’s really real now, her divorce from Owen, Owen’s new family, and she loved him so much, and God, I hope he never cheated on her, she said he didn’t but who can really know anything anymore? No one. That’s who.

Suddenly I’m crying very hard, not just leaking tears but full-on, chest-ripping sobs that hurt, they’re so vicious.

“Oh, honey,” Jenny whispers, holding me close. “Oh, sweetie.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have to figure out what to do first,” I choke out between the awful, shuddering convulsions.

“No, I won’t,” she says. “And...Rachel, whatever you need, I’m here. If you and the girls want to stay here—”

“No!” I yelp, startled out of my tears. “No! It’s way too early to think about anything like that. I don’t even know if it’s true. Please, Jenny.”

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