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It was three days before New Year’s.
He had just returned from a business trip to Atlanta, and his suitcase stood half-open in the hallway, clothes spilling out like nothing was wrong.
I was being the helpful girlfriend who unpacks and does laundry. But as I sifted through his clothes, I found something.
Two bracelets.
They were identical — silver, elegantly simple, expensive. One was engraved, “For Ruth.”
My name.
The other:
There was no misunderstanding here.
No innocent explanation that could fix this, and no way to unsee what I was seeing.
He had a wife.
I left without waking him or leaving a note. I just walked out the door, got in my car, and drove.
I could’ve stayed in my apartment. It was only 20 minutes away, familiar and safe and mine.
But the city felt unbearable.
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