Every year my husband went on a “men’s trip” while I played the perfect wife—until one year I followed him, took 11 photos, and uncovered a truth that was about to destroy everything

and tired adults, they had been young men. One year it was Mazatlán, another Querétaro, another Monterrey. That year he said they were going to Guadalajara.

The night before he left, as always, I made his favorite meal: cochinita pibil, white rice, and fried plantains. It was our ritual. He would pack, I would cook, we’d have dinner together, and I’d continue reading …