Not a perfect one.
My husband, Tucker, and I argued about ordinary things.
Dirty dishes.
Household repairs.
Whether we really needed to replace our aging car.
But we’d been together for nine years and married for seven. I trusted him completely.
Or at least I thought I did.
That Tuesday, Tucker left home before sunrise for an important business trip.
“Send me a message when you arrive,” I murmured sleepily.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He leaned over, kissed my forehead, picked up his suitcase, and quietly closed the bedroom door.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.
There was nothing unusual about his departure.
In fact, I was excited for him.
For the previous week, Tucker had been preparing a major presentation for a regional client.
Every evening, he’d spread his documents across our dining table, studying sales figures, editing slides, and rehearsing what he wanted to say.
