The purse sat open on the kitchen counter like a gaping mouth, its contents spilling out in a careless confession. Kurt’s intention had been simple—just move it aside to clear space for the grocery bags—but the small, crinkling foil square that tumbled onto the Formica stopped him cold. Then another. And a third.

Condoms.

A cold, tight knot formed in his gut. He had heard the late-night returns, the hushed giggles on the porch, the engines of boys’ cars peeling away into the dark. He had suspected. But this was proof, laid bare under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen he paid for. His pulse hammered in his ears,...