I cried when I took my husband to the Mexico City airport because he was “moving to Toronto for two years.” That is the version of the story most people would have believed if they had seen us that morning: a composed couple facing temporary distance for the sake of career growth. From the outside, our life looked deliberate and polished. We lived in Lomas de Chapultepec, hosted dinners with colleagues in Polanco, and managed rental properties in Querétaro and Monterrey. We spoke easily about expansion, about international opportunities, about building something lasting. When James told me his company had offered him a leadership role in Canada, I didn’t hesitate.

I told him I was proud. I reassured him that long-distance was temporary, that we were strong enough to handle it. I hugged him in the departure lane as though I were sending off a partner I trusted completely. But three days before that airport goodbye, something shifted quietly and irreversibly. It began with a small, ordinary decision: walking into his study while he was in the shower, looking for documents I thought I needed. His laptop was open. I wasn’t searching for betrayal. I wasn’t suspicious.