Tom filed for divorce from Amber within the month.

I never told anyone outside the family what had happened in that living room. I didn't need to. Amber told her sister. Her sister told her best friend. Her best friend told the ladies' section at the golf club.

By Easter, everybody knew.

They knew about the private investigator. About the cropped photos. About the fake messages written at Elaine Whitfield's kitchen table.

The women who'd listened to Elaine call me a gold-digger stopped sitting with her at lunch. Her name quietly disappeared from the club committee.

Amber moved to London. I heard later she was working in a shop on the King's Road and telling people her ex-husband had been “emotionally unavailable.”

In May, Elaine wrote me a letter.

Rachel. I have no right to ask anything of you. What I did was wicked. I told myself it was love for my son. It was pride. I would like to meet my grandson, one day, if you ever allow it. I will understand if you don't. Elaine.

I read it three times.

I didn't reply. Not yet.

Some things you don't get back with one letter. You have to earn them.