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Her husband David had been cheating for years. She found the messages by accident. Or maybe she was finally ready to stop pretending she didn’t see what was already there.
When she told us, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t mascara streaks and a shattered vase. It was Rachel standing in my parents’ kitchen with her phone in her hand, eyes glassy, voice too controlled.
My mom gasped like she’d been struck. My dad’s face tightened in that practical way it always did when he wanted to solve a problem instead of feel it.
“How long?” Dad asked.
“Who is she?” Mom asked.
“Are you sure?” Dad said, like the proof wasn’t already glowing on the screen.
Rachel didn’t cry until she said, “I’m sure,” and then her shoulders shook once, like her body had been holding it in and finally gave up.
For a moment, my parents did what they always did when Rachel was hurt. They rallied. They circled her. They turned her pain into a family crisis, which meant she was still the center.
I didn’t resent that then. Rachel looked broken, and I loved her in the complicated way you love someone who has been both your shadow and your mirror.
She filed for divorce, and no one blamed her. Not even our parents. If anything, they told everyone who would listen how proud they were of her strength, how she was “such a good mother,” how she was “handling it so well.”
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