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Four years ago, my marriage didn’t end with shouting or confrontation.
It ended in silence.
I wasn’t supposed to be home that morning. I’d forgotten a folder for a meeting and turned the car around without a second thought. It was an ordinary Tuesday—completely unremarkable in every way. I still remember small details: the microwave clock glowing softly, my phone vibrating in my pocket, the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering in the air.
My husband, Tom, was in our bed.
And he wasn’t alone.
The woman beside him clutched the sheet like it could protect her. Tom looked at me with an expression I had never seen before—exposed, diminished, stripped of excuses.
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