On our eighth wedding anniversary, my husband was playing an underwater kissing game with his female best friend. I was alone in the restaurant where I'd booked our anniversary dinner, eight months pregnant with our son. Graham's chair was empty. A waiter had just set down our cake when my phone lit up with a notification from Harbor Aquatics. LIVE NOW: STAFF CELEBRATION. I almost ignored it; Graham had texted that his last lesson was running late. Then the stream loaded. Tessa Reed had her legs wrapped around my husband's waist. For a second, I thought I'd mistaken him for someone else. Then Graham turned toward the camera, and I saw the face I'd kissed goodbye that morning. The red LIVE timer read 10:12. A small scoreboard in the corner flashed: GRAHAM & TESSA — THREE ROUNDS WON. Someone shouted, “Again!” Graham pulled her beneath the water and kissed her when they surfaced. He was still holding her. I started a screen recording. My thumb slipped once before the recording indicator turned red. Only then did I open Graham's messages. At 6:30: One last student. Order if I'm late. At 7:20: Still in the water. Don't wait for me. It was nearly nine. Tessa's divorce had come through two months earlier. Since then, Graham had treated every call from her as an emergency. If she argued with her ex, he went to her. If she couldn't bear to be alone, he stayed. He called it compassion. He said she'd been through enough. I'd helped Tessa pack after the divorce and brought her dinner. But Graham had already missed two of my prenatal appointments for her—once after another fight with her ex, and once because she couldn't stand an empty apartment. Both times, he promised he'd make it up to me. I brought the ultrasound pictures home and told him what the doctor had said while he checked his phone for Tessa's replies. On the livestream, the whistle blew. The other couple broke apart, laughing. Tessa turned toward the pool steps, but Graham caught her hand and pulled her back. He kissed her again. The game had already run for more than ten minutes. They'd won three rounds together, and when the whistle ended the next one, Graham still chose to pull her back for another kiss. Our son pushed a foot against my ribs. I covered the movement with my palm. I'd imagined Graham sitting opposite me tonight, feeling that kick for himself. Beside the cake sat the gift I'd brought for him: the silver coaching whistle he'd given me when he proposed, mounted in a glass case beneath the words: FOR THE LIFE WE BUILT FROM THE BEGINNING. Eight years earlier, we'd eaten takeout on the bleachers beside a public pool because Graham couldn't afford a ring. He placed the whistle in my palm and closed my fingers around it, promising that if he ever won an award, I'd be the first person he thanked. His regional coaching ceremony was tomorrow. I'd planned to give the whistle to him tonight and watch him keep that promise. I called him. “Ellie? I'm still at Harbor.” He sounded breathless. “I saw you kissing Tessa.” Silence, then a sigh. “It was a game.” “The stream had been live for more than ten minutes. You'd already won three rounds with her, and after the whistle, you pulled her back.” “Everyone was laughing. Don't make a harmless party into something ugly.” “I've been sitting here for two hours.” “You could've eaten. I told you not to wait.” He spoke as though I'd complained about the reservation, not watched him kiss another woman. “What about the appointments you missed?” “Tessa's having trouble with her ex. You know what she's been through.” “And what am I going through, Graham?” He exhaled. “You're pregnant, Ellie. You're emotional. We can talk tomorrow.” “Tomorrow is your award ceremony.” “Then another night. I can't do this right now.” The call ended. The waiter brought the bill and glanced at the untouched cake. I couldn't tell him why my husband wasn't coming. I paid, saved a second copy of the recording, photographed Graham's messages, and carried the unopened gift case to my car. I hadn't decided what to do about my marriage, but I knew I couldn't go home and lie beside Graham tonight, pretending I hadn't seen his mouth on hers. I called my sister Maya, a divorce lawyer I'd never imagined needing for my own marriage. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “Not physically. I just don't want to go home and sleep next to him.” “Then don't. Come here. We'll talk when you're safe.” I sent her the recording. Then I typed: I think I want a divorce. I pressed send. A new message from Graham appeared before I could pull out of the parking lot. Tessa can't go home tonight. I told her she could stay at our place. Please don't make this worse.