At 30,000 feet, I caught my husband with his secretary—but by the time we landed, he had lost everything.

I would have tried to comfort the man who broke me because being needed had always felt too close to being loved.

But now I saw it clearly.

He didn’t miss me.

He missed the life I made possible.

I typed one sentence.

You should have thought about that at 30,000 feet.

Then I blocked the number.

A year later, I flew again.

Boston to Seattle this time.

A first-class continue reading …