I used to think the hardest thing I would ever do for my husband was give him a piece of my body.
Turns out, the hardest part was discovering what he’d been doing behind my back while I was healing from it.
I never imagined I’d be the kind of woman typing something like this at two in the morning, my house silent except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of my own breathing. But here I am.
My name is Meredith. I’m 43 years old. Until recently, I would’ve told you my life was good. Not perfect—but solid. The kind of life that feels dependable.
I met Daniel when I was 28.
He was charming in a quiet way. Funny without trying too hard. The kind of man who remembered how you took your coffee and could quote your favorite movie line at just the right moment. He made me feel seen.
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