The porch light flicked on, and there she was, wearing a red silk dress barely covering her thighs and dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked nothing like me — nothing like the woman who’d raised two children, who’d stood by Dave through job losses and his father’s funeral, and 22 years of ordinary Tuesdays.
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
He pulled her close, his hands splaying across her back like he owned her. They kissed with the hunger of teenagers, and I watched my husband become someone I’d never seen before.
He whispered something that made her laugh, that musical sound carrying across the empty street. Then he walked back toward our house while she stood watching from her doorway like some kind of queen surveying her kingdom.
I had maybe 30 seconds before he reached our front door.
I dove into the hallway closet, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he’d hear it through the walls.
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