A woman answered.
“Marina Grill, how can I help you?”
I tried to sound casual.
“Hi. I’m calling because my husband may have left something there Saturday.”
“Name?”
“Mark.”
I gave his last name.
The woman went quiet.
Not confused.
Quiet.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Lisa.”
I paused.
“I’m his wife.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Then:
“You’re his wife?”
My heart started pounding.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice changed completely.
“I can’t help you with that.”
Then she hung up.
I sat there holding the phone.
That should have been enough to make me confront him.
Instead, I waited.
Maybe because part of me was still trying to protect the version of my marriage I had believed in.
That night, while Mark showered, I searched his duffel bag.
I hated myself for doing it.
But by then, suspicion had already destroyed whatever normal privacy used to mean between us.
