I walked into my living room at midnight and saw my husband asleep with our neighbor under our anniversary blanket, so I took out my phone instead of screaming.

It was September 22, 2031.

The sun was sinking slowly over Marblehead Harbor, casting long streaks of molten gold and violet across the calm, metallic surface of the water.

David's thirty-four-foot wooden sailboat, The Phoenix, glided smoothly through the gentle waves, her white sails full of the evening breeze.

David stood at the wooden helm, wearing a dark blue sweater, his silver-streaked hair blown back by the wind, looking out over the horizon with a calm, happy expression.

I sat in the teak cockpit beside him, wrapped in my emerald green blanket, holding a glass of crisp red wine.

Beside us on the wooden bench sat a small leather-bound album containing photographs of our new house in Salem—a beautiful 18th-century federal home we had spent two years lovingly restoring together, piece by piece, stone by stone, until every beam shone with warm, authentic light.

"How's the helm, Captain?" I asked, leaning over to rest my hand against his warm arm.

David turned his head, looking down at me with hazel eyes that held no shadows, no secrets, and no lies.

"She's riding perfectly, Claire," David smiled, reaching over to wrap his arm around my shoulders, pulling me flush against his side as the boat cut cleanly through the ocean spray. "Smooth sailing all the way home."

I looked out over the open water.

The sun touched the edge of the sea, sending a long, brilliant path of golden light straight toward our boat—a road of pure light cutting through the dark ocean.

I took a deep, clear breath of the fresh salt air, lifted my glass toward the setting sun, and let out a long, quiet sigh of complete and total freedom.