I Found a Note in My Husband’s Shirt That Said, ‘Please Don’t Let Her Find Out’

The sun spilled through the window, warm against my shoulder. I picked up one of Ron’s shirts, the navy one with the pale buttons he wears too often, and paused. Something about the weight of it felt different.

At first, I thought it was a receipt. I unfolded it absently, expecting dry cleaner tags or a grocery list.

But it wasn’t.

There were just six words, scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting: “Please don’t let her find out.”

Underneath it was a phone number. I read the note again, and again. Then I folded it once more, slowly, and slipped it into the apron pocket of my housedress.

The washing machine beeped behind me, the end of the first load’s rinse cycle. I pressed the button to stop it, then stared out the window. The trees outside were blooming.

That night, I made chicken marsala with mashed potatoes. Ron poured two glasses of red wine, even though he usually complains that it gives him a headache.

I didn’t say anything about it.

“Long day, Delilah?” he said, handing me the glass.

“Everything alright?” I asked, careful to keep my voice light. I tried not to think about the note.

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