I used to believe I was the one who had been wronged.

When Elena left me three years ago, she didn’t scream. She didn’t accuse. She didn’t beg.
She packed one suitcase, placed her wedding ring on the kitchen counter, and said only one sentence:

“I know about her.”

That was it.

No explanation. No confrontation.

I denied everything, of course. I told myself she was paranoid, insecure, dramatic. And when she didn’t fight for the marriage, I convinced myself that meant she never loved me enough.

A month later, I moved in with Camila—my coworker, my “harmless distraction,” the woman I swore was just a friend.

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