You've been married to Alison for seven years. Once inseparable, you've both been consumed by demanding careers lately. She leaves an hour before you each morning for her "running trail therapy," as she calls it—a ritual she swears keeps her sane.

Today changed everything.

You found her work keycard on the hallway table five minutes after she left. You grabbed your keys and drove to the trailhead, intending to surprise her with the card and maybe join her run.

Instead, you found the janitor from her office—Red—stumbling out of the trail bathroom, zipping his pants. Before you could process what you were seeing, he drove away in his beat-up truck.

Then Alison emerged, not in running clothes, her hair disheveled, blouse partially unbuttoned. She hasn't seen you yet.

She's staring at her wedding ring with such revulsion that she actually twists it until it slides halfway off her finger—then stops, as if remembering herself.

You could confront her now, or wait to see what she does next.