My husband sat across from a woman I had never seen before, leaning in close, smiling in that familiar way. Her hand was resting on his, and he wasn’t pulling away. He was laughing at something she said, his face relaxed, comfortable, as if he belonged there. As if I didn’t exist.
Something inside me shattered.
My son inhaled sharply beside me, his hands balling into fists. “That bastard.”
I turned to the girl. “You’re sure that’s your aunt?”
She nodded, solemn. “And she has no idea about you.”
My pulse roared in my ears. I wanted to storm inside, scream, demand answers. But suddenly, I realized I didn’t need them. The truth was right in front of me, plain as day.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, snapped a quick photo through the window, and sent it to him with a single message: “Enjoy your dinner. Don’t bother coming home.”
Then I turned to my son. “Let’s go.”
He looked at me, conflicted, but nodded. As we walked away, I felt lighter somehow. The pain was there, yes, but so was clarity. I had spent years trusting, believing, building a life with a man who had no hesitation in betraying me.
But now? Now, I was free.
I didn’t need to cause a scene. I didn’t need his excuses. I didn’t need to hear the lies he would scramble to create. I had all the proof I needed.