The moment the elevator doors slid open on the 14th floor, I nearly walked straight into my co-worker Diane.

She was holding two coffee cups, her work badge still swinging from the collision.

She laughed, steadied herself, then looked at me, really looked at me, and her smile faded just slightly.

“Hey,” she said carefully. “How are you holding up with everything going on with your husband?”

“I mean,” I blinked. “What do you mean? My husband is in Norway. He’s been there almost 4 years.”

Diane’s face went completely still.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Sarah, my brother-in-law works at the Harrove building on Fifth. He told me he sees a man who matches your husband’s description going into the apartments there. He’s been there for over a year. I assumed you knew. I’m so sorry.”

She kept talking, but I stopped hearing her.

The elevator doors closed behind me. The hallway felt like it was tilting.

My husband had been in Norway.

That was what I had believed for 4 years.

My husband and I met when we were both 24. I was finishing my last semester of nursing school. He was working entry level at an engineering firm downtown.

Quiet and steady in a way that made me feel safe.

We dated for 2 years, got married in a small ceremony at my parents house in Connecticut, and within 6 months, he was offered a position that changed everything.

The company he worked for had secured a major contract with an offshore oil platform operation in the North Sea. The assignment was supposed to be 2 years. The pay was extraordinary, more than either of us had ever seen.

And the plan was simple.

He would go, we would save, and when he came back, we would buy a house, maybe start a family, build something real together.

I was 27 when I drove him to the airport.

I cried the whole way home.

The first year was hard, but manageable.

He called when the satellite connection allowed, which was not always reliable.

He sent money home consistently, depositing into our joint account on the first of every month without fail.

I worked my nursing shifts, sent him photos of the apartment I was slowly making feel more like home, and counted down the months.

The 2-year mark came and went.

His contract was extended. The company needed him for another rotation.

He said he was sorry, that it would be the last extension, that the extra time meant we could pay off the car and still have money left over.

I said I understood because I did.

We were building something.

Four years in, I was 28, going on 29, working nights at the hospital, keeping our joint account organized, sending him birthday cards addressed to a forwarding address that his company managed.

I had not seen my husband in almost 4 years.

But I had stayed faithful, completely and without question, because that is what marriage meant to me.

That is what I believed it meant to both of us.

And then Diane said those words in the hallway on a Tuesday afternoon in October.

I did not call him that night.

I sat on the kitchen floor for a long time with my back against the cabinet, thinking about all the little things I had never let myself question.