My wife found someone else’s bra in my jacket pocket one ordinary Tuesday evening. She held it up between two fingers like evidence at a crime scene and said, very calmly, “I’m not accusing you of anything, just explain: where did you get it from?” The lace was unfamiliar, the size was wrong, and the faint perfume was definitely not hers. I stood there with my mouth open, searching every corner of my memory and finding nothing.

I had zero ideas. We left the bra on the kitchen counter and went to bed in silence. The next seven days were thick with unspoken questions. Then, a week later, it all suddenly became clear.