A month after our twenty-fifth anniversary, Jane looked at me across the breakfast table. “Kevin,” she said, “I don’t know who I am anymore.” She blinked rapidly and fiddled with her faux pearl necklace. “I feel lost. I—I need something different.” Recently, she’d told me she’d been trading late-night messages with Jerry, a man ten years her junior, whom she’d met on a dating site. Middle age had softened the contours of her petite figure, and she worried about her fading attractiveness. “Jerry makes me feel alive again,” she said. I stared at my buttered toast. “I decided to move out at the end of the month,” she said, wringing her hands. Jane’s words shocked and saddened me. We’d often talked about our love for each other. She would proudly show visitors photos of us smiling and hugging, one photo for each year we’d been together. I tried to dissuade her, but eventually resigned myself to the new reality. * During the following week, Jane packed items into cardboard boxes but didn’t seal them immediately. …