I sat there, thirty thousand feet above Indiana, with a sleeping seven-year-old and a husband I suddenly realized I didn’t fully know. On my phone, Tyler’s announcement replayed: the softness in his tone when he said “Patricia Chen,” the quiet reverence when he called her “extraordinary.” Not romantic—that wasn’t the bruise. It was the realization that six months of his sky belonged, in some unspoken way, to a woman I’d never even heard about. While Mason’s cheek rested against the window and his BEST PILOT EVER drawing curled by his sneakers, I cataloged my own complicity: the nights I’d said “How was your trip?” and been content with “Fine.” The texts I’d let stand in for stories. The way we’d built a marriage on headlines instead of full articles. As the plane descended and the ground rose up in a blur of winter fields, another truth surfaced: this wasn’t just about Patricia; it was about every unasked question still floating, unsa… Continues…