Her smile in that picture made my stomach twist. How many years had it been going on? How long had I been the fool at the center of their secret?
At some point, I laughed. A short, dry sound that didn’t feel like mine—the kind of laugh you give when there’s no other reaction left in you.
I went to the sink and splashed water on my face, but the woman in the mirror didn’t look like me anymore. Her eyes were red, her lips pressed tight, the corners of her mouth trembling.
I wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come.
By evening, I’d convinced myself that maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe I’d misheard. Maybe they were talking about something else—anything else.
But deep down, I already knew. You can’t mistake the sound of betrayal when it’s spoken by the man you’ve shared your life with.
I sat there until the sun went down, the house dimming around me. Every sound outside—the barking dogs, the passing cars, the creak of the porch—felt foreign, like I was living inside someone else’s story.
At midnight, Frank came home. He kissed my forehead. He smelled like her perfume—gardenia and smoke.
He smiled like nothing had happened.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tender.
And that was the moment I knew. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t even afraid.
“I’m fine,” I said, steady, my heart thudding so hard I thought he could hear it.
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