I never thought twice about letting my husband enjoy a rare night out.

But the next morning, I opened the refrigerator and found a tray of homemade lasagna that definitely hadn’t been there before. Written across the lid were two words that made me question everything I thought I knew about my marriage.

Ryan brought up the football match around four that afternoon, asking in the cautious way he always did when he was already expecting me to object.

“You’re really okay with me going?”

“I already said yes.”

“I can stay home.”

“Ryan.”

He grinned. “Okay. I’m going.”

He had worked six days straight and was due back early Sunday morning. Meanwhile, I would be home with our three children: Ben, six, Maisie, four, and eleven-month-old Ella, who still treated sleeping through the night as an unreasonable suggestion.

But I honestly didn’t mind.

“Have a beer,” I told him. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t rush home.”

He left around six.

By seven, I was already reconsidering how generous I had sounded.

Ella screamed throughout her bath. Ben couldn’t locate the dinosaur toy he apparently required in order to survive bedtime. Maisie rejected three different pairs of pajamas before eventually choosing the first pair again.

By nine, all three children were finally asleep.

At nine-thirty, Ella woke up.

At eleven, Maisie appeared beside my bed crying because of a nightmare and climbed under the covers before I could respond.

I eventually fell asleep around midnight with one of her feet pressed firmly into my back.

I vaguely heard Ryan return at about 1:20 in the morning.

The front door clicked shut.

The staircase creaked.

A faucet ran downstairs.

Then Ryan tried to come upstairs quietly, although his version of being quiet somehow involved making more noise than usual.

I remember him stopping briefly in our bedroom doorway.

After that, I was asleep again.