My kids hit the Halloween jackpot. After three years of only marginal returns, after striking out at the mall a year ago, after vainly walking the streets of our neighborhood two years ago, this Monday they struck chocolate. The street has a name, but I will simply call it Sugar Alley. With decorations to rival Christmas, house after house beckoned trick-or-treaters with enough sugar to make cavities sufficient to turn around a failing dental practice. My kids came home with eight pounds of candy—128 ounces—enough to fill my largest mixing bowl to overflowing.

Halloween was a resounding success—almost. My son wanted to go by Ljubica’s house to get candy. He knew that she would not be there; apparently she was babysitting somewhere. But she had told him that she would leave candy out for him and his sister in a plastic pumpkin. When we got to her house, the candy stash had been raided and no candy remained. When Ivan saw that there was no candy from his mom, his lip began to quiver and started crying. He then began berating the “rude children” who had taken all of the candy. He said that he would not become a person like that—someone who would take so much candy that others would not have any. I couldn’t help but be proud of him despite his disappointment.

This Halloween marked the first holiday that Ljubica and I were not together with our kids. She was conspicuously absent on our walk. It was strange because it was different. I felt both her absence and no desire to have her there. It felt odd.

Halloween, like many holidays, was often difficult with Ljubica. One Halloween was decidedly unpleasant. I cannot remember all of the details; I think that we were not sure about where to go candy-hunting. We tried one place, maybe the mall, but they were out of candy. On the way home, I thought of stopping at the house of one of my professors. He lived nearby and I thought that he would be a safe bet. I parked the car and walked up to the house with the kids. No one was home. Then I remembered that some of my classmates lived next door. They were a kind of neo-monastic group. Six or seven people lived there. Two were women. One was married and sharing, obviously, a room with her husband. The other, Lara, was single. So we walked over to their house. No one was home except Lara and another member of the community, Randy. They didn’t have any candy, but they did give the kids an apple each.

The kids took their apples and we walked back to the car. We got in and Ljubica let me know why I had chosen that house: According to her, I was in love with Lara and wanted the kids to meet my girlfriend. (As it happens, Lara and Randy were in love with each other. They are now married and have a beautiful baby boy.) The kids got apples; I got accused of adultery.

This happened years ago—maybe as many as five or six. Why mention it at all? Why bring it up? Because I remembered it while we were out trick-or-treating. And also because the accusation never went away. This past summer Ljubica began writing me derogatory missives and leaving them on our dining room table. One was a list of women with whom she accused me of having affairs. Lara’s name was on the list along with eight others.

I never had an affair with any of them. I never had an affair with anyone. I never betrayed by vow.