Mom? Are you there?

Mom? Where are you?

Mom, I need to talk to you.

Mom, please call me.

When the plane from LaGuardia touches down in Houston, I take my phone out of airplane mode and watch texts pile up like a deck of cards.

Text from Daniel, text from Daniel, from Daniel, from Daniel, from Daniel . . .

Mom, are you and Dad in an open marriage?

This is not Plan A. This is not even Plan W. This is, to put it mildly, cause for panic.

I follow the course of action I always take when faced with an unsolvable dilemma. I reach out to my husband, Stewart.

First, I take a screenshot of the texts. Underneath, I write, WTF?! What should I do?

Shit, he writes back. Do you want to call me?

I stumble off the plane, looking frantically for a place to collect myself—my water bottle and plane garbage, my thoughts and dignity. I find a spot against the wall, flanked by departure and arrival information boards.

The phone doesn’t ring before Stew picks up.

“Oh, baby,” he says. The sympathy in his voice reaches me through the phone. Stew knows how much I don’t want to have this conversation with Daniel. He makes me an offer that’s hard to refuse: “How about if I call him?”

“No, I’m the one he’s asking. Maybe some TV show put the idea in his head and I can wriggle out of it.”

“He’s a mature kid. It’ll be fine no matter what. I can talk to him later, too, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I love you, my baby.” And after sixteen years of marriage—after everything we’ve been through—I know in my marrow that this is true.