I’m 35. My husband, Jason, is 37. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven. And for a while, the quiet behind a locked garage door nearly drove me out of my mind. Jason has always been a hands‑on dad. The kind people talk about with admiration. The kind you don’t have to remind. “Hey, kiddo,” he’d say, crouching down with a smile. “Garage time?” School events. Bedtime stories. Hair brushing in the mornings. Tea parties on the living‑room floor with tiny cups and stuffed animals. He showed up every day without complaint,

I ended my 36-year marriage after I discovered secret hotel rooms and thousands of dollars missing from our account — and my husband refused to explain himself. I truly believed I had made peace with that choice. I told myself I had done what I had to do to survive. But then, at his funeral, his father got drunk and said something that cracked everything open again. He told me I had it all wrong. I had known Troy since we were five years old. Our families lived right next