The Truth Behind the Wheel
The following week, when he said “late again,” I followed. It felt petty. Shameful, even. But the gravity of suspicion is strong.
I drove home in a fog, hands trembling on the wheel. The house felt foreign when I walked through the door.
The next day, I found her on Facebook. Same red coat. Same smile. And in a moment of quiet fury, I sent her a message:
I believe you’ve been seeing my husband. Can we talk?
Two Women at a Café
Her reply came an hour later: I had no idea. He told me he was divorced.
We met at a small café. She was younger. Pretty in the fragile way of someone who still believes promises. She slid her phone across the table: texts, photos, a parallel life running beside mine.
He had told her he was separated. That he was staying in the marriage only for his daughter’s sake.
I studied her face. Anger flared, but not at her. She hadn’t made vows to me. She was just another piece in his web of lies.
For the first time, I realized my fury was no longer tangled with doubt. I knew.
