My husband started parking down the block, showering the second he got home, hiding his phone — I was sure it was an affair until I followed him one morning and saw which building he kept going into.
At first it was little things. He stopped leaving his keys in the kitchen bowl. Started carrying his phone face-down even to the mailbox. If I walked into the room while he was texting, the screen went black before I reached him.
Then came the smell. Not perfume. Something sharp. Like disinfectant mixed with cigarette smoke.
One night I found a folded set of clothes hidden in his trunk. Jeans. Old sneakers. A gray sweatshirt I’d never seen before.
He said they were for the gym.
My husband has hated gyms since the nineties.
So Friday after he left, I waited ten minutes and followed him through Dayton. He parked three streets away from downtown and walked the rest of the way with his hood up like he didn’t want anyone recognizing him.
Not a hotel.
Not another woman’s apartment.
A brick building with blackout curtains over every front window.
The sign out front said FAMILY RECOVERY CENTER.
I watched him stand outside for a second before going in. Head down. Looking around first.
After he disappeared through the doors, I crossed the street myself and looked through the glass beside the entrance.
And that’s when I saw my husband’s picture hanging on the wall beside the words VOLUNTEER SPONSOR OF THE MONTH.
Except underneath the photo was another name handwritten in marker.
Not his.
The name he’d been using before we met.