It was the season when, after years of Sphinx-like secrecy, I left increasingly blatant breadcrumbs—had been scattering them without much intention or control ever since, six months prior, my husband had privately told me at Emily’s wedding (after first shouting at me in the hotel courtyard in front of my lover and his wife) that he knew I didn’t love him anymore and was afraid I was only waiting for the kids to leave so we could become “a clichéd empty nester divorce.” It was the season I could no longer pretend that ignorance was bliss, that my husband was anything resembling happy.